LI  E.  RARY 

OF   THE 

U  N  I  VERS  ITY 

or    ILLINOIS 

3)\3ol 
V.  2 


Return  this  book  on  or  before  the 
Latest  Date  stamped  below. 

Theft,  muHlation,  and   underlining   of  books 
are  reasons  for  disciplinary  action  and  may 
result  in  dismissal  from  the  University. 
University  of  Illinois  Library 


NOV  2  6  1^85 


X  ISSB 


L161— O-1096 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2010  with  funding  from 

University  of  Illinois  Urbana-Champaign 


http://www.archive.org/details/deathsdoingscons02dag 


y 


DEATH'S    DOINGS. 


PRINTED  BY  G.  H.  DAVIUSON', 
IRELAND  YARD,   DOCTORS'  OOMMOXS. 


TME  BFEBLES  OF  MIFE  BROKE:^  BY  BEATM. 


Cp/i^sistin^  of  nam^vus 
I?i/&  friendly  Coniribidw/is  ofvarwus  WhI&rs; 

PEINCIPALLT     INTENDED   AS 

ElLILIDr^^i'IBAirS®!^^ OF  If  millETT  ifil^ts^, 

Xiesigiied  and   Etclied 

BY  R.  DAG  LEY. 

,  Author  of  "select  GES^S /?(//»  tke.yiS^TIQUE^&c 


'  But  God  forbid  tliAt  a  thief  sliould  die 
'Without  tis   sliare  of  the   laws ! 
So  1  Tiinibly   ■wiiipt   uiy   tackle   out. 
And   soon  tied  up  Ids  claws.  — 
I  was  judge,  myself,  and  jarj,  aud  all 
Aad  solemnly  tried  the   cause?     „     , 

IBB  SECOND  SDZTZOir.  WITB  COtr.'ODEIiABLE  ADDITION'S. 


Vol.   11. 


LONDON"; 
.T.  ANDHEWS_1(;7,    NEW    BOND    .-^THEET. 


'  DEATH'S    DOINGS : 

CONSISTING  OF  NUMEROUS 

ORIGINAL   COMPOSITIONS, 

IN 

Vtv^t  anlr  ilro^e, 

THE 

FRIENDLY  CONTRIBUTIONS  OF  VARIOUS  WRITERS  ; 

PRINCIPALLY   INTENDED  AS 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

OT 

THIRTY    COPPER-PLATES, 

DESIGNED  AND  ETCHED 

BY  R.  DAGLEY, 

AUTHOR    OF   "  SELECT    GEMS    FROM   THE    ANTIQUE,"  &c. 
VOL.  II. 


SECOND    EDITION, 

WITH    CONSIDERABLE    ADDITIONS. 


LONDON: 

J.  ANDREWS,  167,  NEW  BOND  STREET  ;    AND  W.  COLE, 
10,  NEWGATE  STREET. 

1827. 


THE   LAg;T    BOTTLE. 


225 


THE  LAST  BOTTLE. 


An'  if  it  be  the  last  bottle,  Death  is  quite  wel- 
come ;  for  then  life  hath  run  to  the  very  dregs  and 
lees,  and  there  is  nothing  more  in  it  which  can  be 
called  enjoyment.  Ah,  whither  have  ye  sped,  ye  jo- 
vial Hours,  which  on  bright-winged  glasses,  far  dif- 
ferent from  yon  sandy  remembrancer,  floated  away 
so  blissfully;  as  the  bird  poised  high  in  air,  the 
trouble  of  the  ascent  over,  glides  without  effort  or 
motion,  through  the  brilliant  pleasures  of  yielding 
space.  How  ye  sparkled  and  ran  on,  like  gay  crea- 
tures of  the  element  gifted  with  more  than  magic 
powers.  Beautiful  and  slight  ephemera,  fragile  as 
you  seemed,  what  mighty  loads  of  cares  did  you 
easily  bear  off  in  your  aerial  flight !  Ponderous 
debts  which  might  weigh  nations  down  ;  the  griefs  of 
many  loves,  enough  to  drown  a  world ;  the  false- 
hoods of  friends,  the  malice  of  enemies ;  anxieties, 
fears,  troubles,  sorrows — all  vanished  as  drinking  ye 
proceeded  in  your  mystic  dance !     I  picture  ye  in  my 

Q 


391727 


226  death's  doings. 

fancy,  now,  ye  Hours,  as  sparkling,  joyous,  and  ex- 
quisite insects,  flitting  past  with  each  a  burden  of 
man's  miseries  on  his  shoulders  sufficient  to  break 
the  back  of  a  camel,  and  borne  from  the  lightened 
hearts  of  your  true  worshippers.  But,  alas !  alas  ! 
for  all  things  mortal — we  must  come  to  the  last  at 
last. 

Yet  let  the  grim  tyrant  approach  at  any  time,  sith 
it  must  be  so,  and  at  what  time  can  he  approach 
when  we  should  less  regard  his  frown.  Like  the  un- 
conscious lamb,  which  "  licks  the  hand  just  raised 
to  shed  its  blood,"  we  play  with  his  bony  fingers  as 
he  presents  the  latest  draught ;  and,  let  his  dart  be 
dipped  in  the  rosy  flood,  we  die  feeling  that  wine 
gives  to  Death  itself  a  pang  of  joy.  Herodotus 
must  have  been  wrong  when  he  told  us  that  the 
Maneros  of  the  Egyptians  was  a  mournful  and  wail- 
ing song;  and  Plutarch's  is  the  best  authority,  for 
he  says  it  was  a  joyous  chant.  So  believed  the 
merry  party  assembled  in  our  faithful  picture  :  their 
round  of  song,  of  toast,  of  cheer,  of  laughter,  and 
of  shout,  was  such  as  Plutarch  paints  of  the  wisdom 
of  antiquity,  when  the  figure  of  a  dead  man  was 
shown  to  the  convivial  souls,  and  they  melodiously 
joined  the  chorus — 


THE  LAST    BOTTLE.  227 

Behold  that  breathkss  corpse ; 

You'll  be  like  it  when  you  die  : 
Therefore  drink  without  remorse. 
And  be  merry,  merrily. 

Ai-lun,  Ai-lun,  Ai-lun,*  quo'  he! 
Our  only  night,  no  sky   light,  drink  about, 
quo'  we. 

Time,  they  tell  us,  waits  for  no  man  ; — 

HLmt  antr  ^Hjc 
jfor  no  man  bitit. 

But  here  we  can  make  Death  himself  a  waiter,  while 
the  cup  is  drained  and  the  jocund  catch  goes  round. 
Hark,  whose  voice  among  the  happy  set  is  that 
which  sings — 

While  here  we  meet,  a  jovial  band, 
No  Son  of  Discord's  impious  hand 
Dare  fling  the  apple,  fire  the  brand, 

To  mar  our  social  joy : 
Free,  as  our  glorious  country  free, 
Prospering  in  her  prosperity. 
With  wine,  and  jest,  and  harmony. 

We  Pleasure's  hours  employ. 

But  lo,  he  whose  face  is  half  concealed  by  that  arm 
uplifted  with  the  sparkling  glass,  he  has  drank  till 

*  Literally  in  the  Greek,  •'  Behold  that  corpse ;  you  will  resemble 
it  after  your  death :  drink  now,  therefore,  and  be  merry." — (See  He- 
rodotus and  Plutarch,  on  the  Egyptian  Maneros,  passim).  The  fine 
chorus  of  Ai-lun,  "  He  is  dwelling  with  the  night,"  is,  we  trust,  pa- 
thetically rendered. 

Q2 


228  death's  doings. 

the  tender  mood  of  philosophy  steals  over  his  melt- 
ing soul.  His  maudlin  eye  would  moisten  with  a 
tear  at  a  tale  of  sorrow  or  a  plaintive  air ;  and  it  is 
thus  he  gives  vent  to  his  soothing  melancholy  sensa- 
tions- 
Death  comes  but  once,  the  philosophers  say. 

And  'tis  true,  my  brave  boys,  but  that  once  is  a  clencher  : 
It  takes  us  from  drinking  and  loving  away. 

And  spoils  at  a  blow  the  best  tippler  and  wencher. 
Sing  Ai-lun,  though  to  me  very  odd  it  is, 
Yet  I  sing  it  too,  as  my  friend  quotes  Herodotus. 


And  Death  comes  to  all,  so  they  tell  us  again, 

Which  also  I  fear,  my  brave  boys,  is  no  fable  j 
Yet  the  moral  it  teaches,  to  me  is  quite  plain : 
'Tis  to  love  all  we  can  and  to  drink  all  we're  able. 

Sing,  again,  Ai-lun,  though  to  me  odd  it  is ; 
But  'tis  Greek,  very  good  I  hope,   and  comes  from 
Herodotus. 


The  old  Trojan  himself  tucks  his  napkin  under  his 
arm,  the  whetting  of  his  scythe  is  forgotten,  and  he 
wishes  (miserable  sinner),  that,  instead  of  sand,  his 
double  glass  were  wetted  full  with  burgundy.  How 
it  would  refresh  and  revivify  his  dry  ribs !  how  it 
would  re-create  and  beautify  his  filthy  skeleton  form ! 
but  he  must  do  his  thankless  office,  while  he  listens 
to  that  third  glee  which  he  with  the  plumed  bonnet 
trolls  forth  : — 


THE  LAST  BOTTLE.  229 

Let  the  sparkling  glass  go  round, 

The  sparkling  glass  where  care  is  drowned ; 

For  while  we  drink,  we  live,  we  live ! 
Let  the  joyous  roof  ring  with  the  measure, 
.    The  sweetest  of  the  muses'  treasure 
That  Music's  voice  can  give. 
Thus  crowned,  the  present  beams  with  pleasure. 
The  memory  of  the  past  is  lighter. 
The  prospect  of  the  future  brighter — 
And  while  we  drink,  we  live,  we  live. 

Chorus. — We  live,  we  live,  we  live,  we  live. 

For  while  we  drink,  we  live,  we  live. 

Another  cork  is  drawn.  At  the  smacking  sound 
cares,  fears,  pains,  fly  from  the  unruffled  soul  of 
man,  as  wild  fowl  fly  from  the  placid  lake  at  the  re- 
port of  the  fowler's  gun.  The  undulating  agitation 
of  the  instant, — the  centric,  concentric,  elliptic,  pa- 
rabolic, and  every  imaginary  shape  into  which  its 
glancing  bosom  is  broken,  ripples  and  sparkles  with 
light,  and  all  then  gently  subsides  into  smoothness 
and  serenity. — The  calm  is  delicious,  and  the  bowl 
becomes  more  and  more  brimmed  with  inspiration  as 
the  flood  within  it  ebbs.  Whose  turn  is  it  now  to 
entertain  us  ?  What,  Square-cap !  thou  hast  stood 
or  rather  sat  the  brunt  of  many  a  deep-drenched  ta- 
ble ;  the  words  of  discretion  must  flow  from  thy  lips 
so  often  steeped  in  the  fountains  of  truth  and  wis- 
dom. Oracle  of  the  holy  well — the  *'  Trine,  trine, 
trine,"  of  Rabelais  drops  from  them  as  emphatically 
as  upon  the  ear  of  the  weary  Panurge  : — 


230  death's  doings. 

Alexander  and  Caesar  have  vanished  away  -, 

And  Plato  and  Cicero  now  are  but  clay  ; 

The  brave,  and  the  learned,  and  the  good,  and  the  wise, 

All  come  to  the  same  simple  close  of  "  Here  lies." 

Then  let  us  employ 

Our  moments  in  joy — 
And  before  the  sure  end  make  the  best  use  of  Time. 

'Twere  folly  to  pine 

O'er  generous  wine, 
Since  sadness  is  madness,  and  gloom  is  life's  crime, 

"  Trine,  trine,  trine,"  * — I  speak, 

French  words  and  French  \\ines  are  far  better  than 
Greek. 

Look  along  the  bright  board,  like  a  river  it  flows 
With  a  liquid  whose  sparkling  no  water  e'er  knows  ; 
While  the  banks  are  with  friends  in  good  fellowship  crowned. 
Who  bathe  deep  in  the  stream  and  ne'er  fear  being  drowned, 

'Tis  Bacchus'  hour, 

So  let  him  out-pour 
All  his  treasures,  ^^hile  we  make  the  best  use  of  Time  •, 

Friendship  and  wine 

Are  union  divine. 
And  when  drunk,  mortal  drunk,  mortal  man  is  sublime  ! 

"  Trine,  trine,  trine," — I  speak, 

French  words  and  French  wines  are  far  better  than 
Greek. 

Encore,  encore — no  more,  no  more  :  the  last  measure 

*  When  tlie  oracle  of  the  Holy  Bottle  was  pronounced  by  the  trink- 
ling  of  the  drops  whicH  fell  from  it,  quoth  Panurge,  "  Is  this  all  that 
the  Trismigistian  Botde's  words  mean  ?  In  truth  I  like  it  extremely,  it 
went  down  like  mother's  milk." — "  Nothing  more,"  returned  Bacbuc, 
"  for  TRINC  is  aPanomphean  word,  that  is,  a  word  understood,  used, 
and  celebrated  by  all  nations,  and  signifies  Drink.— See  Rabelais  for 
this  adventure  of  Pantagruel  and  Panurge. 


THE  LAST  BOTTLE.  231 

is  full,  the  last  verse  is  sung,  the  last  cork  has  left 
the  neck  of  the  last  bottle  open.  The  gloomy  assas- 
sin strikes — He  who  has  been  so  often  dead  drunk, 
what  is  he  now?  At  the  next  meeting  there  was 
one  chair  empty,  one  jolly  dog  absent — Ai-lun. 
And  what  said  his  disconsolate  companions — they 
missed  him,  they  mourned,  they  lamented,  no  doubt : 
— aye,  and  they  joked  too.  One  said  he  had  never 
paid  any  debt  till  he  paid  the  debt  of  Nature ;  an- 
other remarked  that  he  was  just  wise  enough  to  pre- 
fer a  full  to  an  empty  bottle  ;  and  the  third  wrote  his 
epitaph  over  the  third  bottle  per  man  : — 

HABEAS  CORPUS  !     HIC  JACET ! 

Here  lies  William  Wassail,  cut  down  by  the  Mower  j 
None  ever  drank  faster  or  paid  their  debts  slower — 

Now  quiet  he  lies  as  he  sleeps  with  the  Just. 
He  has  drank  his  Last  Bottle,  and  fast,  fast  he  sped  it  o'er. 
And  paid  his  great  debt  to  his  principal  Creditor ; 

And  compounded  with  all  the  rest,  even  with  Dust. 

W.  J. 


232 


THE  BACCHANALIANS. 


Whilst    Reason    rules    the  glass,    and    Friendship 
flings 

Its  Claude-like  tint  o'er  life's  convivial  hours. 
Heart  towards  heart  with  generous  fervour  springs. 

And  Fancy  wreaths  the  social  board  with  flowers. 

But,  when  the  glass  o'er  prostrate  Reason  rules, 

And  all  Ebriety's  dull  vapours  rise, 
Lost  in  the  mist,  the  wisest,  changed  to  fools, 

Take  thorns  for  flowers,  and  whips  for  social  ties. 

Look  now  on  yon  bibbers — how  wildly  they  laugh 
And  exult  o'er  the  poison  they  fearlessly  quaflf; 
Their  mirth  grows  to  madness,  and  loudly  they  call 
On  the  waiter  ;  —  he  enters  —  Death  waits  on  thera 

all: 
They  jest  at  his  figure  ; — 'tis  meagre  and  bare. 
But  soon  his  "  pale  liv'ry"  the  proudest  shall  wear. 


4 


THE  BACCHANALIANS.  233 

That  last  fatal  bottle  the  mischief  shall  work  ; 

Their  last  vital  breath  shall  be  drawn  with  that  cork  : 

Its  odour  is  fetid — it  smells  of  the  dead, 

'Tis  a  type  of  their  fate,  for  their  spirits  have  fled  : 

The  glass  of  hilarity  reels  in  their  hand, 

But  there  is  another  glass — flowing  with  sand ; 

Its  grains  are  fast  falling — they  trickle — no  more  : 

Those  glasses  are  drained — the  carousal  is  o'er. 

» 

H.  D. 


234 


ELIXIR    VITJ^. 


"  Wine  does  wonders  every  day." 


From  the  time  when  the  juice  of  the  grape  was 
first  concocted  into  beverage,  to  the  present  day — 
the  day  of  Charles  Wright,  of  champagne  celebrity 
— wine  has  ever  been  lauded  as  one  of  Nature's 
most  valuable  gifts  to  man.  It  is  the  true  aurum 
potabile,  the  genuine  elixir  vitcB,  invigorating  the 
heart,  inspiring  the  fancy,  and  recalling  to  the  veins 
of  age  the  genial  glow  of  youth.  Accordingly,  many, 
very  many,  are  the  excellent  sayings  that  have  been 
uttered  in  commendation  of  this  generous  liquor ; 
and  many,  very  many,  too,  are  the  good  things,  the 
bright  thoughts,  the  flashes  of  wit  and  eloquence  it 
has  suggested ;  for  when,  indeed,  has  it  ever  proved 
ungrateful?  Not  unfrequently  has  the  bottle  been 
the  Helicon  whence  bards  have  drawn  inspiration, 
if  not  immortality :  it  has  also  been  compared  to  the 
fountain  of  youth,  or  to  that  wonder-working  caul- 


ELIXIR  VIT^.  235 

dron  in  which  Medea*  re-animated  with  fresh  vigour 
and  vitality  the  aged  limbs  of  her  parent,  infusing 
into  his  veins  a  warmer,  fuller  current. 

Nevertheless,  although  the  bacchanalian  be 
steeped  in  his  all-potent  liquor  as  deeply  as  possi- 
ble, and  although  he  be  rendered  proof  against  all 
the  cares  and  anxieties  that  beset  us  in  this  mortal 
passage, — though  he  bear  a  "  charmed  life,"  and 
daily  inhale  new  vigour  from  "  tired  nature's  sweet 
restorer,"  balmy  wine  ;  like  him  who  was  dipped  in 
the  waters  of  Styx,  he  is  not  all  invulnerable, 
there  being  ever  some  little  spot  assailable  by  the 
fatal  dart  of  the  grisly  spectre.  Death,  indeed,  pays 
not  much  respect  to  the  bon  vivant ;  and,  regardless 
of  him  as  the  professed  toper  may  appear,  or  sel- 
dom as  he  sings  a  memento  mori  over  his  bowl,  or 
utters  one  in  the  form  of  a  toast,  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged that  he  more  often  rehearses  the  final 
scene  of  life  than   his    fellow  mortals,  by   getting 

*  Stripped  of  its  allegorical  veil,  the  fable  of  Medea  is  nothing  more 
than  the  record  of  some  of  those  magnificent  achievements  of  certain  of 
the  medical  profession,  which  M'e  find  so  eloquently  narrated  in  those 
pithy  compositions,  bight  advertisements,  according  to  the  unpoetical 
matter-of-fact  spirit  of  modem  times,  so  different  from  that  of -antiquity ; 
not  but  there  may  be,  and  undoubtedly  is,  a  considerable  degree  of 
both  fancy  and  invention  in  those  productions. 


236  death's  doings. 

dead-dmnk,  thus  anticipating,  as  it  were,  that  state 
of  insensibility,  that  utter  oblivion  of  sublunary 
things,  that  characterizes  Death. 

As  the  bee  extracts  sweetness  from  the  vilest 
plants,  so  does  the  moralist  collect  lessons  of  wis- 
dom and  deep  reflection  from  scenes  that  seem  ca- 
pable of  furnishing  little  instruction  of  this  nature. 
We  may  be  pardoned,  therefore,  if  we  prose  a  little 
on  that  truly  poetical  and  classical  subject,  a  bac- 
chanalian* group,  when  the  competitors  having  in- 
dulged in  unsparing  libations  to  the  genius  loci— the 
deity  of  the  bauqueting-room,  sink  in  oblivious  re- 
pose and  death-like  insensibility.     Here  the  full  tide 

*  For  the  benefit  of  those  who  dehght  to  indulge  in  bold  etymolo- 
gical speculations,  and  supply  the  pedigree  of  words  from  conjecture,  we 
will  here  record  an  anecdote  that  may  elucidate  the  origin  of  this  epi- 
thet:— "  So,  I  hear,  Mrs.  Simkins,  that  your  good  man  had  quite  a  bac- 
chanalian party  the  other  evening,"  remarked  an  acquaintance  to  the 
spouse  of  a  retired  cheesemonger.  "  I  would  have  you  to  know,  sir," 
returned  the  lady,  all  her  injured  dignity  lighting  up  her  face  in  the 
most  glowing,  picturesque  manner  imaginable — quite  in  the  style  of  a 
sunset,  by  Claude — "  I  would  have  you  to  know,  sir,  that  Mr.  Simkins 
is  above  such  low  doing.  Bacca  and  ale  party,  indeed ! — no,  we  can 
afford  to  treat  om-  friends  with  wine,  quite  as  well  as  our  neighbours." 
This  reminds  us  of  an  exceedingly  whimsical  dealer  in  the  "  Indian 
weed,"  who  put  up  at  his  door,  instead  of  the  usual  figure  of  a  High- 
lander, one  of  Bacchus,  as  the  god  Bacco,  and  who  always  used  the 
choice  Italian  oath  Co>'po  di  Bacco,  which  he  said  meant  the  fraternity 
or  corps  of  tobacconists. 


ELIXIR  VIT^.  237 

of  existence  that  so  lately  animated  the  joyous  cir- 
cle, and  raised  them  above  the  ordinary  pitch  of 
mortality,  is  stopped ;  the  jest,  the  repartee,  the 
witticism,  the  quaint  remark,  the  pun,  the  anecdote 
— the  enthusiastic  toast,  and  the  rushing  torrent  of 
words  supplied  by  the  grape-god,  whose  bottle  in- 
spires louder  eloquence  than  Pieria's  fount ; — all  are 
now  hushed,  and  succeeded  by  silent  torpidity;  so 
closely  have  the  actors  in  this  mystery  or  morality, 
adhered  to  the  progressive  course  marked  by  Na- 
ture herself,  who,  from  the  midst  of  health  and  life, 
prepares  decay  and  dissolution.  If  we  gaze  on 
these  fallen  heroes  of  the  bottle,  we  shall  perceive 
that  some  have  quite  drained  their  glasses,  while 
others  have  fallen  victims  to  stupor  and  insensibi- 
lity, the  bright  liquor  still  sparkling  before  their 
eyes.  So  far  we  might  not  seldom  derive  a  moral 
lesson  from  a  not  particularly  moral  subject.  But 
there  are  occasions  when  Death  literally  takes  his 
place  at  the  festive  board,  and  mars  the  merriment 
of  the  hour  devoted  to  joy,  "  with  most  admired 
disorder." 

He  does  not  stand  upon  the  form  of  coming,  well 
knowing  that  he  cannot  be  denied.  He  is  the  dun 
that  comes  to  demand  the  payment  of  the  great  debt 


238  death's  doings. 

of  nature,  and  against  him  all  subterfuges,  however 
ingenious,  are  unavailing.  Scorning  and  setting  at 
naught  all  form  and  etiquette,  he  intrudes  in  spite 
of  porter  or  groom  of  the  chambers.  Nevertheless, 
he  will  occasionally  use  a  little  finesse  and  strata- 
gem, although  certain  of  being  able  to  gain  forcible 
admission— ^;^■  et  armis.  Here  he  comes  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a  boon  companion,  for  a  while  to  entertain 
the  company  with  his  erudition  in  oenology ;  and 
descant  most  learnedly  on  the  pedigrees  of  wines, 
showing  himself  deeply  learned  in  the  lore  of  a  Hen- 
derson, and  quite  aufait  in  the  science  of  the  draw- 
ing-room,— that  is,  the  room  where  they  draw  corks ; 
which,  by  the  by,  in  the  opinion  of  a  great  many  con- 
noisseurs, is  the  finest  style  of  draiving  ever  in- 
vented— at  least  so  it  is  held  by  those  practitioners- 
who  operate  as  bottle  dentists,  and  pique  them- 
selves on  the  skill  with  which  they  extract  their 
teeth,  and  drain  their  veins— not  of  blood,  but  of  the 
generous  and  potent  ichor,  for  which  they  are  so 
esteemed.  But  whether  the  liquor  he  proffers  be 
claret  or  champagne, — "  that  might  create  a  soul  be- 
neath the  ribs  of  death," — or  whether  it  be  eau-de-vie 
itself,  it  becomes  a  fatal  poison,  if  Death  takes  upon 
himself  to  act  the  part  of  cup-bearer.  If,  however, 
wine  do  sometimes  prove  a  poison,  it  must  be  ac- 


ELIXIR  VITiE.  239 

knowledged  to  be  infinitely  the  most  agreeable  of  any 
mentioned  or  not  mentioned  in  any  treatise  on  toxi- 
cology, and  by  far  the  most  palateable  and  generous 
way  of  committing  suicide  yet  discovered. 

Many  have  declaimed  vehemently,  if  not  elo- 
quently, against  the  ''  sweet  poison  of  misused 
wine,"  attributing  to  it  the  most  pernicious  effects 
on  the  human  frame  ;  forgetting  that  the  mischief  is 
occasioned,  not  by  the  quality  of  the  medicine,  but 
by  the  excess  of  the  dose.  In  other  words,  the  fault 
lies  in  the  patient  himself,  which  is,  we  presume,  in- 
variably the  case  whenever  any  infallible  nostrum 
works  not  the  desired  cure.  If  wine  has  hurried 
many  out  of  the  world  sooner  than  they  would  other- 
wise have  departed,  so  has  physic,  and  more  espe- 
cially that  sort  of  physic  that  has  professed  to  ac- 
complish the  most  miraculous  effects,  and  remove 
all  disorders.  Indeed,  to  do  these  universal  pana- 
ceas justice,  they  do  most  effectually  remove  every 
complaint  by  despatching  the  patient  himself  into 
the  other  world ;  and  this  is,  perhaps,  one  reason 
why  we  hear  of  so  few  failures  in  those  wonder- 
working drugs  that  promise  to  protract  existence  to 
an  antediluvian  length  of  days. 


240  death's  doings. 

To  those  who  like  to  indulge  in  fanciful  compari- 
sons, the  festive  table,  covered  with  well-freighted 
decanters,  shows  itself  like  a  calm  sea  on  which 
stately  ships  and  rich  argosies  are  sailing  along  in 
gallant  trim,  fearing  neither  storms,  nor  shoals,  nor 
rocks ;  but  steer  their  way  among  goodly  dishes 
laden  with  luscious  fruits,  that  stud  the  bright  ex- 
panse like  so  many  fertile  islands,  and  form  an  ar- 
chipelago of  sweets.  And,  to  continue  the  simile, 
how  many  goodly  promontories  and  capes  do  we 
discern  around !  Yonder  is  a  fiery  proboscis  that 
serves  as  a  flaming  beacon — a  moral  light-house  to 
warn  the  inexperienced :  not  far  from  this,  a  mouth 
that  expands  itself  like  some  capacious  haven. 
Continuing  our  course,  we  come  to  a  nose,  a  jutting 
promontory  with  a  mole  at  its  extremity  rivalling 
that  of  Genoa.  There  a  snowy  head  meets  the  eye, 
reminding  us  of  Etna  ; — there  a  face  with  an  eruption 
that  marks  it  at  once,  by  its  fiery  appearance,  as  Ve- 
suvius :  yet  as  men  are  not  deterred  from  approach- 
ing that  mountain,  so  neither  is  our  bon-vivant 
scared  from  his  crater— in  plain  prose,  his  glass— by 
the  fiery  glare  of  his  own  countenance ;  or  perhaps 
its  reflection  serves  only  to  lend  a  deeper  ruby  tint 
to  his  wine.     Let  us  not  be  accused  of  being  too 


ELIXIR   VIT/E.  241 

fantastic  and  obscure  in  our  allegorical  picture  ;  for 
surely  the  image  is  natural  enough. 

Life  itself  has  been  compared  to  a  voyage,  and 
hence  many,  interpreting  the  expression  somewhat 
too  literally,  have  actually  steered  their  course 
through  a  Red  Sea  of  port  and  claret ;  sailed  across 
a  Pacific  Ocean  of  burgundy  and  champagne ;  navi- 
gated a  Rhine  whose  stream  has  been  genuine  Rhe- 
nish ;  and  cruized  up  and  down  a  gulf  of  choice 
Malaga  ;  visiting  alternately  Madeira  and  the  Cape ; 
now  touching  at  the  Canaries  and  now  at  Oporto  or 
Lisbon ; — in  short,  circumnavigating  the  whole  globe, 
and  studying  the  geography  of  different  regions, 
while  their  bottles  circulated  round  the  polished  ex- 
panse of  the  mahogany  dining-table,  that  reflected 
their  sunny  faces  on  its  countenance.  In  wine  they 
fancied  they  had  discovered  the  nectar  of  the  im- 
mortals— a  Lethe  for  all  the  cares  and  anxieties  of 
human  existence.  And  most  assuredly  the  liquor 
with  which  they  deluged  themselves  was  often  not 
very  dissimilar  in  its  effect  from  that  attributed  to 
that  fabled  stream ;  for  many  have  drank  till  they 
have  forgotten  their  creditors,  their  families,  and 
even  themselves.  It  is  not,  therefore,  surprising 
that  they  should  not  have  recollected,  that,  let  them 

R 


242  death's  doings. 

steer  with  what  skill  they  might, — however  they 
might  be  favoured  with  fair  breezes  and  prosperous 
gales,  and  escape  tempests  and  squalls,  they  must 
finish  their  voyage  in  the  Dead  Sea. 

When  Death  officiates  as  Butler,  as  we  here  see 
him,  and  draws  the  cork,  it  is  from  the  waters  of 
that  horrid  lake  he  pours  out  the  nauseous  beverage 
that  all  are  compelled  to  drain  from  his  hand.     At 
his  bidding  the  wine-bibber  must  visit  other  shades 
than  those  whither  he  has  often  so  willingly  repaired 
to  partake  of  the  inspiring  glass,  heedless  of  the 
ominous  name.     The  Shades  ! — what  a  memento  mori 
in  that  awfully-sounding  word,  which  is  nevertheless 
daily  uttered    by  so   many  with    so   much   gaiety ! 
Hardly  do  they  seem  to  reflect  that  the  grisly  spec- 
tre will  ere  long  summon  them  from  the  wine-vault 
to  that  narrow  vault  where,  instead  of  finding  a  ban- 
quet for  their  thirsty  palates,  they  must  themselves 
afford  a  banquet  to  the  worm ;  to  those  shades  where 
they  themselves  will  be   as   shadows,  where   their 
glass  will  be  broken,  their  bottle  emptied,  no  more 
to  be  replenished ;    and   their   revelry  silenced   for 
ever. 

W.  H.  L. 


243 


THE    SHADES. 


[Allusion  having  been  xnade  in  the  foregoing  article  to  the  well-known 
"  Shades"  at  the  foot  of  old  London  Bridge,  but  which  shady 
retreat  will,  ere  long,  be  swept  away,  that  its  site  may  form  a  part 
of  the  entrance  to  the  new  one,  we  take  the  opportunity  of  insert- 
ing the  following  trifle,  as  a  memento  of  that  favourite  resort, 
where,  like  good  citizens,  we  have  often  paid  our  devoirs  to  Bacchus, 
and  at  the  same  time  admired,  with  feelings  natural  to  an  English- 
man, the  wealth  and  commerce  of  the  world  borne  majestically  along 
on  the  bosom  of  "  Old  Father  Thames."] 


I  SING  not  of  Shades  which  they  tell  of  below. 

Where  Pluto  and  Proserpine  reign  ; 
But  I  sing  of  the  Shades  whither  wine-bibbers  go. 
Where  a  stream  of  Oporto  doth  constantly  flow — 

A  Lethe  to  wash  away  pain. 

The  Lethe  of  Tartarus,  poets  declare. 

Oblivious  virtues  possess'd ; 
But  the  Lethe  we  mean,  metamorphoses  care, — 
It  inspires  us  to  love  and  to  cherish  the  Fair, 

And  warms  e'en  the  Anchoret's  breast. 
R  2 


244  death's  doings. 

The  sons  of  gay  Bacchus  their  nectar  here  quaflf — 

And  Sorrow,  that  "  thirsty  old  soul/' 
With  the  children  of  Momus,  delighted,  will  laugh. 
And  swear  that  he  ne'er  was  so  happy  by  half 
As  when  up  to  his  chin  in  the  bowl. 

Wine,  wine  is  the  balm  that  assuages  our  pains  ; 

Come,  fill — and  the  glasses  push  round  ; 
It  cherishes  love — so,  take  courage,  ye  swains. 
And  drink  while  a  drop  of  the  cordial  remains — 

For  without  it  no  bliss  can  be  found. 

Grim  Death  for  a  while  shall  his  dart  lay  aside. 

And  even  old  Time  shall  stand  still. 
While  mortals,  enjoying  the  rich  rosy  tide, 
Shall  laugh  at  "  dull  Care," — and,  with  true  civic 
pride. 

Of  wine,  like  the  gods,  take  their  fill. 

Oh,  haste  to  the  Shades,  then,  where  wine-bibbers 
meet. 

Oh,  haste  to  that  fav'rite  resort. 
Where,  in  wet  or  dry  weather,  in  cold  or  in  heat. 
All  care  is  forgot  in  a  snug  elbow  seat. 

When  of  port  you  have  drank  a  full  quart. 


M. 


TME    WAIRIRIOR,. 


245 


DEATH  AND  THE  WARRIOR. 


"  Aye,  warrior,  arm!  and  wear  thy  plume 

On  a  proud  and  fearless  brow ! 
I  am  the  lord  of  the  lonely  tomb, 

And  a  mightier  one  than  thou  ! 

**  Bid  thy  soul's  love  farewell,  young  chief ! 

Bid  her  a  long  farewell ! 
Like  the  morning's  dew  shall  pass  that  grief — 

Thou  comest  with  me  to  dwell ! 

"  Thy  bark  may  rush  through  the  foaming  deep. 

Thy  steed  o'er  the  breezy  hill ; 
But  they  bear  thee  on  to  a  place  of  sleep. 

Narrow,  and  cold,  and  still !" 

"  Was  the  voice  I  heard  thy  voice,  O  Death  ? 

And  is  thy  day  so  near  \ 
Then  on  the  field  shall  my  life's  last  breath 

Mingle  with  Victory's  cheer ! 


24G  death's  doings. 

"  Banners  shall  float,  with  the  trumpet's  note, 

Above  me  as  I  die. 
And  the  palm-tree  wave  o'er  my  noble  grave. 

Under  the  Syrian  sky. 

"  High  hearts  shall  burn  in  the  royal  hall. 
When  the  minstrel  names  that  spot; 

And  the  eyes  I  love  shall  weep  my  fall — 
Death  !  Death  !  I  fear  thee  not." 

**  Warrior !  thou  bearest  a  haughty  heart. 

But  I  can  bend  its  pride  ! 
How  shouldst  thou  know  that  thy  soul  will  part 

In  the  hour  of  Victory's  tide  ? 

"  It  may  be  far  from  thy  steel-clad  bands. 

That  I  shall  make  thee  mine  ; 
It  may  be  lone  on  the  desert-sands. 

Where  men  for  fountains  pine  ! 

"  It  may  be  deep  amidst  heavy  chains. 

In  some  strong  Paynim  hold — 
I  have  slow  dull  stfeps,  and  lingering  pains. 

Wherewith  to  tame  the  bold  !" 


DEATH  AND  THE  WARRIOR.  247 

"  Death  !  Death  !  I  go  to  a  doom  unbless'd. 

If  this  indeed  must  be  ! 
But  the  cross  is  bound  upon  my  breast, 

And  I  may  not  shrink  for  thee  ! 

"  Sound,  clarion,  sound ! — for  my  vows  are  given 

To  the  cause  of  the  holy  shrine  ; 
I  bow  my  soul  to  the  will  of  heaven, 

O  Death!  and  not  to  thine !" 

F.  H. 


248 


THE    WARRIOR 


It  came  upon  the  morning  wind 

One  loud  and  thrilling  tone. 
And  distant  hills  sent  forth  their  voice, — 

The  trumpet-call  was  blown. 

And  sterner  grew  each  stately  brow 

As  that  war-blast  pass'd  by. 
And  redder  grew  each  w  arrior  cheek, 

Brighter  each  warrior  eye. 

But  other  cheeks  grew  pale  to  hear. 

And  other  eyes  grew  dim ; 
Woman  shares  not  man's  battle  joy,^ — 

That  joy  is  all  for  him. 

The  same  blast  lights  the  glance  of  flame. 

Darkens  the  martial  frown  ; 
At  which  a  woman's  rose-lip  fades, — 

At  which  her  heart  sinks  down 


THE  WARRIOR.  249 

Proudly  that  trumpet  sweeps  thy  hills. 

Land  of  the  sword  and  shrine. 
It  calls  the  soldier  of  the  cross 

To  fight  for  Palestine. 

It  roused  one  tent,  which  stood  apart 

Within  the  barrier  made 
By  many  a  green  and  creeping  shrub 

And  one  tall  palm-tree's  shade. 

It  roused  a  warrior  and  his  bride — 
His  bride  !    What  doth  she  there? 

Oh,  rather  ask,  when  led  by  love. 
What  will  not  woman  dare  ? 

Said  I,  her  timid  nature  was 

Like  her  cheek's  timid  hue ; 
But  fearful  though  that  nature  be. 

She  hath  her  courage  too. 

Go  ask  the  fever  couch,  the  cell 

Of  guilt ;  she  hath  no  part 
In  courage  of  the  head  and  hand. 

She  hath  that  of  the  heart. 


250  death's  doings. 

'Tis  this  has  brought  that  gentle  one 
From  her  fair  Provence  bower. 

Where  in  her  husband's  halls  she  dwelt, 
Nurs'd  like  a  lovely  flower. 

That  trumpet-call,  it  roused  them  both 
From  a  sweet  dream  of  home. 

Roused  him  to  hopes  that  with  such  sound 
To  gallant  spirits  come. 

And  she, — at  least  she  hid  the  fears 
That  clouded  her  fair  brow, — 

Her  prayers  had  guarded  him  in  fight. 
Might  they  not  guard  him  now  ? 

She  armed  him,  though  her  trembling  hand 
Shook  like  a  leaf  the  while ; — 

The  battle  had  his  onward  glance. 
But  she  his  lingering  smile. 

She  brought  the  blue  and  broidered  scarf. 

Her  colours  for  his  breast ; 
But  what  dark  dreary  shape  has  brought 

His  helm  and  plumed  crest  ? 


THE  WARRIOR.  251 

Fell  Shade  !  they  see,  they  heed  thee  not. 

Thou  of  the  noiseless  wing, 
The  viewless  shaft,  the  sudden  call — 

O  Death,  here  is  thy  sting. 

The  lips  would  close  in  pious  hope. 

The  eyes  in  willing  sleep. 
But  for  the  tears,  the  bitter  tears. 

That  love  is  left  to  weep. 


'Tis  evening— and  the  blood-red  west 

Has  not  so  deep  a  red. 
As  hath  that  slaughter-field  where  lie 

The  dying  and  the  dead. 

'Tis  midnight — and  the  clang  of  steel, 
The  human  shout  and  cry, 

Are  silent  as  if  sleep  and  peace 
Were  upon  earth  and  sky. 

The  strife  is  past  like  other  storms, 
Soldier  and  chief  are  gone. 

Yet  lightly  falls  a  woman's  step — 
What  doth  she  there  alone  ? 


262  death's  doings. 

'Tis  she!  the  Provence  Rose";  oh,  well 

Such  name  beseems  her  now. 
The  pale  and  stony  dead  around 

Wear  not  more  ghastly  brow. 

Woe  for  her  search — too  soon  she  finds 

Her  valiant  knight  laid  low; 
Thou  fatal  helm,  thou  hast  betrayed 

His  head  to  the  life-blow. 

One  blasting  gaze— one  loud  wild  shriek, — 

She  sinks  upon  his  breast : 
O  Death !  thou  hast  been  merciful, — 

For  both,  both  are  at  rest. 

L.  E.  L. 


253 


THE  WARRIOR'S  FAREWELL. 


I. 

The  Warrior's  soul  is  kindling  now 

With  wildly-blending  fires, 
He  fondly  breathes  each  raptured  vow 

That  faithful  love  inspires  ; 
But  not  those  whispered  words  alone 

Arrest  the  Maiden's  ear, 
A  prouder  strain— a  loftier  tone. 

Awakes  the  throb  of  fear ! 

II. 

They  hear  the  war-notes  on  the  gale. 

Before  the  tent  they  stand. 
His  form  is  clad  in  glittering  mail, 

The  sword  is  in  his  hand ; 
Her  scarf  around  his  arm  is  twined. 

For  love's  remembering  spell. 
4h  !  would  that  kindred  skill  could  bind 

The  links  of  life  as  well ! 


254  death's  doings. 

III. 

The  battle-steed  is  waiting  nigh. 

Nor  brooks  his  lord's  delay; 
And  eager  troops  are  trampling  by, 

And  wave  their  banners  gay. 
Nor  boding  dream,  nor  bitter  care. 

In  that  proud  host  are  found. 
While  echoing  through  the  startled  air 

The  cheerful  trumpets  sound. 

IV 

The  Maid,  with  mingled  pride  and  grief. 
Faint  hopes,  and  withering  fears, 

''5 

Still  gazes  on  the  gallant  Chief 
Through  dim  impassioned  tears. 

He  sees  but  Victory's  golden  wreath. 
And  love's  unfading  flame. 

Nor  thinks  how  soon  the  form  of  Death 
May  cross  the  path  of  fame  ! 

V. 
"  A  last  farewell— a  la^t  embrace. 

And  now  for  glory's  plain  /" 
Those  parting  accents  left  a  trace 

Of  phrensy  on  her  brain. 


THE  warrior's  FAREWELL.  255 

And  when  the  Warrior's  helm  was  brought 

To  crown  his  forehead  fair, 
Alas !  the  shuddering  Maiden  thought 

'Twas  Death  that  placed  it  there  ! 

D.  L.  R. 


266 


THE    VOLUNTEER. 


The  clashing  of  my  armour  in  my  ears, 

Sounds  like  a  passing  bell ;  my  buckler  puts  me 

In  mind  of  a  bier ;  this,  my  broadsword,  a  pickaxe 

To  dig  my  grave." 

The  Lover's  Progress. 


'TwAS  in  that  memorable  year 
France  threatened  to  put  off  in 
Flat-bottom'd  boats,  intending  each 
To  be  a  British  coflSn, — 
To  make  sad  widows  of  our  wives 
And  every  babe  an  orphan. 

When  coats  were  made  of  scarlet  cloaks , 

And  heads  were  dredg'd  with  flour, — 

I  listed  in  the  Tailors'  Corps 

Against  the  battle  hour ; 

A  perfect  Volunteer, — for  why  ? 

I  brought  my  **  will  and  pow'r." 


THE    VOLUNTEER.  259 

One  dreary  day — a  day  of  dread. 
Like  Cato's — overcast, — 
About  the  hour  of  six,  (the  morn 
And  I  were  breaking  fast), — 
There  came  a  loud  and  sudden  sound 
That  struck  me  all  aghast ! 

A  dismal  sort  of  morning  roll 
That  was  not  to  be  eaten  ; 
Although  it  was  no  skin  of  mine 
But  parchment  that  was  beaten, 
I  felt  tattooed  through  all  my  flesh 
Like  any  Otaheitan. 

My  jaws  with  utter  dread  enclos'd 

The  morsel  I  was  munching, 

And  terror  lock'd  them  up  so  tight, 

My  very  teeth  went  crunching 

All  through  ray  bread  and  tongue  at  once. 

Like  sandwich  made  at  lunching. 

My  hand  that  held  the  teapot  fast, 

StiflFen'd,  but  yet  unsteady. 

Kept  pouring,  pouring,  pouring  o'er 

The  cup  in  one  long  eddy. 

Till  both  my  hose  were  mark'd  with  tea 

As  they  were  mark'd  already. 


260  death's  doings. 

I  felt  my  visage  turn  from  red 
To  white — from  cold  to  hot. 
But  it  was  nothing  wonderful 
My  colour  changed  I  wot. 
For,  like  some  variable  silks, 
I  felt  that  I  was  shot. 

And  looking  forth  with  anxious  eye 

From  my  snug  upper  story, 

I  saw  our  melancholy  corps 

Going  to  beds  all  gory ; 

The  pioneers  seem'd  very  loth 

To  axe  the  way  to  glory. 

The  captain  march'd  as  mourners  march. 
The  ensign  too  seem'd  lagging. 
And  many  more,  although  they  were 
No  ensigns,  took  to  flagging ; 
Like  corpses  in  the  Serpentine, 
Methought  they  wanted  dragging. 

But  while  I  watch'd,  the  thought  of  Death 

Came  like  a  chilly  gust. 

And  lo !   I  shut  the  window  down. 

With  very  little  lust 

To  join  so  many  marching  men 

That  soon  might  be  March  dust. 


THE  VOLUNTEER.  261 

Quoth  I,  *'  Since  Fate  ordains  it  so. 

Our  coast  the  foe  must  land  on ;" — 

I  felt  warm  beside  the  fire 

I  cared  not  to  abandon ; 

And  homes  and  hearths  are  always  things 

That  patriots  make  a  stand  on. 

"  The  fools  that  fight  abroad  for  home," 
Thought  I,  *'  may  get  a  wrong  one  ; 
Let  those  that  have  no  homes  at  all 
Go  battle  for  a  long  one." 
The  mirror  here  confirmed  me  this 
Reflection  by  a  strong  one. 

For  there,  where  I  was  wont  to  shave 

And  deck  me  like  Adonis, 

There  stood  the  leader  of  our  foes, 

With  vultures  for  his  cronies. 

No  Corsican,  but  Death  himself. 

The  Bony  of  all  Bonies. 

A  horrid  sight  it  was,  and  sad. 

To  see  the  grisly  chap 

Put  on  my  crimson  livery. 

And  then  begin  to  clap 

My  helmet  on— Ah,  me !  it  felt 

Like  any  felon's  cap  ! 
s  2 


262  death's  doings. 

My  plume  seem'd  borrow'd  from  a  hearse. 

An  undertaker's  crest ; 

My  epaulettes  like  coffin  plates ; 

My  belt  so  heavy  press'd. 

Four  pipeclay  cross-roads  seemed  to  lie 

At  once  upon  my  breast. 

My  brazen  breastplate  only  lack'd 

A  little  heap  of  salt 

To  make  me  like  a  corpse  full  dress'd. 

Preparing  for  the  vault, 

To  set  up  what  the  Poet  calls 

My  everlasting  halt. 

This  funeral  show  inclin'd  me  quite 

To  peace  : — and  here  I  am  ! 

Whilst  better  Lions  go  to  war. 

Enjoying  with  the  Lamb 

A  lengthen'd  life,  that  might  have  been 

A  Martial  epigram. 

T.  H 


263 


THE  RIVAL  DEATHS. 


A  BATTLE  SCENE. 


It  was  at  Agincourt !  and  proudly  waved 
The  gory  bannerols  ;  and  falchions  fell. 
From  either  host,  right  greedily ;  while  groans 
And  imprecations  deep,  foul  oaths  and  prayers 
The  clangour  swell'd  ! — Thus  Goldsmith's  page  de- 
clares. 

But,  spite  of  things  unseemly ;  spite  of  legs, 

From  hip-bones  torn,  of  arms  where  legs  should  be. 

Quick-sighted  wights,  that  love  of  laughter  plagues, 
'Mong  bloody  trunks,  will  cause  for  grinning  see. 

In  front  of  Henry's  knights  a  warrior  stood, 
Perfum'd    and    whisk'rified,    with    val'rous  ribands 

strew'd. 
For  ribands  gave  (my  chronicler  doth  hold) 
A  wondrous  sight  of  soul  to  men  of  old  : 
They  fought  for  silken  knots  and  ladies'  eyes  ; 
For  broken  limbs  we  seek  another  prize ; 


264  death's  doings. 

And  though  so  many  boast  of  glorious  scars, 
For  trophies  such,  alone,  few  covet  wars. 

Our  Gallic  Baron  was  of  high  descent : 

To  Clovis  traced  ;  his  blood  still  farther  went ; 

For  Pharamond,  he  oft  persisted  in. 

Was  **  ligne  ignoble"  and  "  moderne  origine," 

Desamere,*  not  a  word,  save  Pistol's  jest, 

Or  Falstaff's  broader  hint,  that  told  the  rest. 

Talbot  swore  loud ;  his  blade  stern  Bedford  drew  ; 
The  warrior  bow'd,  and  thus  :  "  ecoutez  tous/f 

Mon  Isabelle,  I  declare. 

Is  de  fairest  of  de  fair ! 

Qui  me  dedit,  qu'il  avance  ! 

Vive  Isabelle  et  la  FRANCE  V'X 

He  scarce,  thrice  bowing,  this  great  nasal  spoke. 
When  angry  Warwick's  mace  his  nasiim  §  broke  : 
In  scented  rills  now  ran  the  purple  tide. 
And  scarf  alike  and  precious  ribands  dyed. 

*  Poor  girl  !  to  be  mated,  so  hasty  was  she, 
She  forgot  there  were  banns,  and  a  pastor,  and  fee. 
t  List,  all  of  you ! 
X  Who  says  nay  :  behold  my  lance ! 
Praise  my  love,  and  honour  FRANCE  .' 
§    His  nose. 


THE  RIVAL  DEA.THS.  265 

One  soothing  thought,  at  least,  his  mistress  calmed — 
Long  ere  the  baron  fell,  he  was  embalmed. 

To  the  grave  now  consign'd,  with  the  gifts  of  his 
queen. 
O'er  the  warrior's  remains  a  contention  arose ; 
And  the  combatants  both  were  the  strangest  of  foes, 

Sith  neither  had  flesh  or  an  eye  to  be  seen.* 

The  first,  in  the  kingdom  of  Albion  held  sway. 
And  his  pow'r  not  a  monarch  on  earth  could  control ; 
The  next  through  the  regions  of  Gaul  took  his  prowl. 

And  claw'd  up  all  mortals  that  came  in  his  way. 

ALBION. 

**  He  is  MINE,  by  the  laws  of  my  land,  I  protest. 
For  I  claim'd  the  fair  mould  in  the  which  he  was  cast. 
Beyond  a  full  score  of  long  years  that  are  past. 

When  the  baron,  his  sire,  in  Britain  was  blest." 

GAUL. 

*'  And  he's  mine,  by  the  bones  of  a  trillion  of  dead  ! 
Mort  ou  vif,  c'est  d,  moi  que  le  drdle  appartient.  f 

*  The  rival  Deaths :  Albion  and  Gaul. 

t  Full  of  life  and  of  musk,  or  of  maggots,  he's  Mine  ! 


266  DEATH  S  DOINGS, 

Will  you  steal  from  a  parent  the  child  it  has  bred  1 
C'est  du  pere,  et  tout  seul,  qu'un  gargon  nous  pro- 
vient  /"  * 

ALBION. 

"  From  the  mother  he  springs  !" 

GAUL. 

"  Point  du  tout,  c'est  dupereTf 

ALBION. 

"  Take  thy  bones  to  thy  care  ; 
Else,  thou  leanest  of  things, 
I  shall  break  them,  I  swear !" 

GAUL. 

"  De  mes  os,  beau  Luron, 

Je  ferai  mon  affaire ; 
II  mefaut  le  baron, 

Quelqii  en  soit  le  salaire!"% 


*  To  the  fathers  the  boys  all  your  sages  assign. 

t  "  From  the  father  the  heir !" 

X  'Bout  my  bones,  my  jolly  buck. 
Are  ye  sure  of  your  good  luck  ? 
But  the  body  I  shall  take. 
Even  •iiere mv  bones  at  stake ! 


THE  RIVAL  DEATHS.  267 

Then,  prattling  and  battling,  the  rattling  grew  loud ; 
Your  Briton  with  cuffs,  and  your  Gallic  with  kicks  ; 
O !  never  were  wrestlers  so  rich  in  fine  tricks. 

As  these  quarrelsome  Deaths  for  a  chap  in  a  shroud! 

Alas  !  what  dreadful  woes  from  trifles  spring  ! 
For  oris,  a  dog  is  wroth  ; — for  less,  a  king. 
There's  death  in  nods,  and  death  in  tennis-balls  ;  * 
Let  but  a  mistress  f  pout,  yon  nation  falls. 

On  couch  of  sable  down,  great  Pluto  napp'd; 

Black  sheets  of  spiders'  web  the  god  enwrapp'd ; 

And  bats  and  owls  about  his  temples  flapp'd. 

To  keep  him  cool :  no  barking  at  the  porch  ; 

No  light  from  furnace  blaze,  or  Gorgon  torch  ; 

The  Cyclops  stood  asleep  with  hammers  up. 

And  Vulcan,  stretch'd,  had  quaff'd  his  nectar  cup. 

When  in  the  champions  rush'd.     Oh,  plaguy  hap  ! 

How  hard  so  soon  to  break  such  kindly  nap ! 

"  Swiftly,  bid  Minos  to  the  council  speed  !" 

The  monarch  cried.     "  Let  all  our  victims  bleed  ; 

Whirl,  whirl  your  racks  and  spits;  your  caldrons  fill; 

Give  Albion  flesh  ;  bring  blood  for  Gaul  to  swill : 

*  Tennis-balls  were  sent  by  the  Dauphin  of  France  to  Henry  V.  of 
England,  to  mock  him  as  a  child  unfit  for  war. 

t  Madame  de  Maintenon  often  altered  the  resolutions  of  Louis  XIV. 


268  death's  doings. 

No  friends  have  we. 

By  land  or  sea. 
So  zealous,  sure,  with  sword  and  ball  to  slay. 
As  England,  first,  no  doubt !  and  France  the  gay." 

AUX   DAMES. 

Now,  my  gentlest  of  readers,  to  you  let  rae  state 
What  became  of  the  baron's  poor  carcass  at  last ; 
Not  a  word  shall  escape  on  the  quibbles  that  pass'd. 

So  well  it  is  known  you  detest  a  debate. 

His  brains,  to  be  short,  in  sweet  lavender  boil'd. 
Were  decreed  as  pomatum  for  Proserpine's  hair  ; 
His  soul,  it  was  prov'd  an  immortal  affair. 

Then  left  on  red  coals  for  its  sins  to  be  broil'd. 

To  carnivorous  Britain,  the  judges  declar'd, 

Should  all  but  the  bones  of  the  warrior  be  given ; 
Tho' for  smell,  had  he  never  from  England  been  driven. 

None  with  Gaul  to  contest  for  the  morsel  had  dar'd. 

But  touching  the  ribands  there  seem'd  much  ado. 
As  though  'twas  a  case  so  perplexing  to  settle ; — 
Should  not  satin  for  shackles  outvalue  rough  metal. 

To  fetter,  Fair  Readers,  such  sinners  as  you  ? 

M.  de  L.  V. 


TME  GLFTro:^, 


269 


THE    APOPLECTIC. 


A    TALE. 


This  metaphor  each  rustic  knows, — 
Frail  man  is  like  the  flower  that  blows 
At  mom  :  before  the  beam  of  day, 
In  air  the  dew-drop  melts  away, 
The  evanescent  blossom  fades  ; 
And,  long  before  the  mellow  shades 
Of  even  cover  tower  and  tree. 
And  all  the  varied  scenery 
Like  a  pale  shroud,  it  withering  lies 
Before  the  mower's  scythe  and  dies. 
Death  is  the  mower ;  and  who  can 
Deny  his  mastery  o'er  man  ? 

Fond  man  !  who  eyes  the  coming  hour 
As  if  already  in  his  power, 
O'erlooking  all  that  lies  between 
The  foreground  and  the  distant  scene  ; 
Or,  drawing  large  from  Fancy's  store. 
Bids  fairy  landscapes  spread  before 


272  DEATH  S  DOINGS. 

The  only  truth,  at  Brazen-nose, 
Which  in  his  mera'ry  would  repose  ; 
And,  now,  like  philosophic  wight. 
He  proved  it  practically  right. 
For  this,  he  hired  cooks,  who  knew 
Not  the  old-fashioned  roast  and  stew  ; 
But  how  to  concentrate  a  leg 
Of  beef  in  compass  of  an  egg  ; 
The  essence  from  a  ham  express  ; 
Display  a  turbot  in  full  dress  ; 
Make  perigot  and  lobster-pie. 
And  tickle  oysters  till  they  cry. 
With  the  excess  of  ecstasy, 
"  Come  eat  me  !  eat  me  !  or  I  die." 

Such  were  Tom's  cooks  ;  his  table  owned 
Their  excellence,  and  deeply  groaned 
With  their  productions,  formed  to  make 
The  dullest  appetite  awake. 
Philosophers  may  boast  of  mind  ; 
Wits  of  the  wreaths  by  Fancy  twined ; 
Churchmen  discourse  of  Paradise 
Prospective  for  the  good  and  wise  ; 
Heroes  of  Fame,  kings  of  their  power, — 
Enough  for  Tom  that  blissful  hour. 
When  steaming  viands  graced  the  board 
That  owned  him  as  its  bounteous  lord. 


THE  APOPLECTIC.  273 

Death,  like  a  cormorant,  stood  by. 
Watching  these  doings  silently  : 
Smiled  forth  a  smile  of  grim  delight. 
Like  lightning  flash  at  dead  of  night. 
And,  cogitating  on  the  way 
That  should  secure  Tom  as  his  prey. 
Resolved  the  masquerader's  art 
To  try,  and  chose  a  waiter's  part. 
He  something  of  the  craft  had  seen 
At  civic  festivals,  I  ween  ; 
And,  like  his  friends  assembled  there. 
Death  thinks  of  business  ev'ry  where. 
Besides,  he  had  improved  his  skill 
In  varying  the  modes  to  kill ; 
Studied  attentively  the  books 
Of  Kitchener  and  other  cooks  ; 
And  found  the  contents  of  a  cruet 
As  well  as  sword  or  pill  would  do  it. 
Of  pill  he  knew  the  power,  for  he 
Had  dwelt  with  an  apothecary. 
And,  often,  been  within  the  walls 
Of  many  famous  hospitals. 
He  could  a  nervous  fibril  prick 
To  sap  life's  citadel  with  tick  ; 
Rupture  a  vessel  in  the  brain 
The  apoplectical  to  gain ; 


274  death's  doings. 

And  cherish  the  bright  crimson  streak 
That  paints  the  hectic  maiden's  cheek. 
Like  the  wild  rose-bud's  vermil  bloom 
Warming  the  marble  of  the  tomb. 
With  these  acquirements  Death  stood  by. 
And  watch'd  Tom's  doings  eagerly. 

'Twas  near  the  close  of  a  bright  day. 

In  infancy  of  lovely  May, 

Tom  sat,  half  dozing,  in  his  chair. 

Alike  devoid  of  thought  and  care  ; 

Dreaming  of  what  he  had  designed, 

A  dinner  suited  to  his  mind, 

A  cod's  head  dressed  as  head  should  be, 

Chef-d'ouvre  of  good  cookery. 

He,  too,  expected,  as  his  guest, 

A  friend  of  kindred  soul  and  taste, 

A  man  exact. — Tom  eyed  the  door; — 

He  gave  two  minutes  and  no  more  : 

His  watch  proclaimed  the  moment  gone. 

His  maxim  was  to  wait  for  none  : 

The  bell  the  summons  spoke  ;  were  placed 

The  chairs,  the  head  the  table  graced 

Swallowed  a  dinner-pill,  and  in 

The  napkin  tuck'd  beneath  the  chin, 

Tom  look'd  as  joyous  and  elate 

As  monarch  in  the  pride  of  state. 


THE  APOPLECTIC.  275 

But  had  he  seen,  through  his  disguise, 

The  spectre  form  of  Death  arise  ; 

The  naked  skull,  the  sockets  void. 

The  lipless  mouth  from  side  to  side. 

The  hollow  ribs,  the  fleshless  legs, 

Tom,  spite  of  his  poor  gouty  pegs. 

Had  fled  ;  and  left,  for  once  at  least. 

The  much-anticipated  feast. 

Nor  saw,  nor  thought  he  danger  nigh. 

Death  ranged  the  sauces  in  his  eye  ; 

Extolling  this, — none  could  that  match. 

Burgess,  nor  Harvey,  nor  Corrach. 

Tom  knew  the  whole,  but  smiled  to  find 

His  man  such  skill  and  taste  combin'd  ; 

Then  picked,  with  practised  hand,  each  bit 

His  palate  critical  to  hit ; 

Mingled  the  sauce  ;  and  then — ah  !  then. 

Sad  destiny  of  mortal  men. 

Whose  hopes,  while  yet  they  blossom,  die ; 

Whose  joys  like  rainbow  colours  fly  t 

Whose  expectations,  still,  appear 

Like  shadows  of  things  coming  near 

Which  ne'er  arrive,  an  airy  train 

Pictured  by  Fancy  on  the  brain. — 

Ah  !  then — what  means  that  vacant  stare  ? 

Why  sinks  Tom  backwards  in  his  chair  ? 

T 


276  death's  doings. 

Why  start  his  eyeballs  from  his  head  ? 
His  face  with  purple  is  o'erspread! 
That  snorting  sound  I  is  he  asleep  ? 
Those  gurgles  in  his  bosom  deep  ; 
That  sob  convulsive  ;  that  long  pause  ; 
That  deep-fetched  breath,  the  last  he  draws. 
And  those  contortions,  all  declare 
A  deed  of  Death  is  doing  there. 

A.  T.  T. 


277 


THE 


COMPLAINT  OF  THE  STOMACH. 


I  FEAR,  said  the  Stomach,  addressing  the  Brain, 
That  my  eflbrts  to  serve  you  will  soon  be  in  vain ; 
For  such  is  the  weight  you  compel  me  to  bear, 
And  such  are  the  labours  that  fall  to  my  share. 
That,  unless  in  your  wisdom  you  lighten  the  load. 
My  strength  must  soon  fail, — I  shall  drop  on  the 

road. 

******* 

Then  the  cargo  of  viands  in  flesh,  fowl,  and  fish. 
Which  serve  as  a  whet  to  some  favourite  dish. 
With  the  compound  of  peppers  and  sauces  to  aid. 
Or  rather  to  force  on  the  market  a  trade — 
Are  really  too  much  for  my  delicate  frame  ; 
And  to  burden  me  thus  is  an  absolute  shame. 
But  I  do  not  complain,  altho'  hard  is  my  case. 
As  many  would  do,  were  they  put  in  my  place. 
Nor  am  I  so  senseless  as  not  to  perceive. 
That  some  other  members  have  reason  to  grieve  ; 

T  2 


278  death's  doings. 

There's  your  legs  and  your  feet,  that  once  bore  you 

about, 
Are  now  useless  as  logs,  with  the  dropsy  or  gout; 
And  your  hands  are  so  feeble,  you  scarcely  can  pass 
To  your  neighbour  the  bottle,  or  till  him  a  glass. — 
And  further  the  Stomach  had  gone  on  to  state. 
When  the  Tongue,  'tis  imagined,  took  up  the  debate. 
"  Did  you  speak  to  the  Brain  ?"  said  a  low  piping 

voice ; 
(It  was  just  before  dinner),  I  much  should  rejoice 
To  find  such  a  being  you  wot  of,  my  friend. 
But  he  and  his  measures  have  long  had  an  end ; 
A  nondescript  substance  now  fills  up  the  space 
In  that  once  intellectual  thought-breeding  place. 
By  some  't'as  been  thought  that  your  chymical  skill 
(Which  now,  it  is  known,  has  the  power  to  kill). 
And  your  fumes  have  destroyed   all  the  power  of 

thinking. 
So  that  no  sense  remains  but  of  eating  and  drinking. 
What  is  said  in  the  Bible  has  long  been  forgot. 
Of  the  passage  which  told,  there  was  '  Death  in  the 

pot.'— 
But  the  sauce  is  preparing  to  season  the  fish ; 
When  too  late  'twill  be  found,  there  is  Death  in  the 

dish." 


THE   H1T:^TEM§   lEAT. 


279 


DEATH  AND  THE  HUNTER. 


Her  beams  all  rosy  the  morning  flings 

O'er  valley  and  hill,  where  music  rings, — 

But  'tis  not  the  sky-bird's  song  so  sweet. 

Nor  the  wood-thrush  that  cheers  the  fawn's  retreat ; 

It  is  not  the  nightingale's  tuneful  spell 

That  swells  the  wild  depths  of  the  forest  along, 
For  she  to  our  isle  hath  bid  farewell. 

And  sung  to  the  groves  her  parting  song — 
Shed  their  last  blossoms  the  weeping  shades. 
When  through  the  forest's  lone  arcades. 
Sighed  the  last  echo  of  her  lay. 
As  to  fairer  climes  she  winged  her  way. 
Where  brighter  moons  and  richer  flowers 
Illume  and  deck  her  gorgeous  bowers. 
And  now, — no  thrilling  midnight  song 
Is  heard  the  desolate  woods  among. 
Save  the  voice  of  the  ruffian  winds  that  rove 

With  lawless  force  abroad,  and  rend 
The  rich-tinted  wreaths  from  bower  and  grove. 

That  beneath  their  gusty  tyranny  bend ; 


280  death's  doings. 

While  as  in  their  might  and  their  wrath  they  roam. 

They  fright  the  dove  from  her  ravaged  home. 

And  now,— no  harmony  by  day 

Is  heard,  save  the  redbreast's  pensive  lay ; 

His  warbled  dirge-notes  o'er  the  grave 

Where  summer,  v/rapped  in  rose-leaf  shroud, 
Sleeps  while  the  wintery  tempests  rave. 

Till  the  sun  in  splendour  waxes  proud. 
And  to  life  the  spell-bound  goddess  wakes. 
Who,  as  onward,  rejoicing,  her  path  she, takes. 
Pomp,  beauty,  and  odours,  and  riches  showers. 
Turning  our  clime  into  Eden's  bowers  ! 

What  music  floats  then  on  the  early  gale 

Down  Autumn's  long-withdrawing  vale  ? 

It  is  the  shrill  and  mellow  horn 

That  wakes  the  echoes  of  the  morn. 

And  with  it  come  the  hunter's  yell. 

And  death-cry  in  harmonious  swell. 

Of  the  dew-snufling  hounds  from  far. 

With  all  the  rout  of  sylvan  war. 

Heart-buoyant  as  the  amber-coloured  cloudlet  rent 

By  the  wanton  winds  'mid  the  firmament ; 

With  cheek  of  the  morn,  and  joy-lighted  eye 

That  rivals  the  tint  of  the  sunny  sky: 


DEATH  AND  THE  HUNTER.  281 

And  merry  as  the  lark  that  floats  embowered 

In  that  cloudlet,  with  gold  so  splendidly  showered, 

The  gay  youthful  hunter  backs  his  steed 

And  urges  him  with  headlong  speed 

O'er  moorland,  heath,  wilds  mountainous. 

Nor  fears  down  rugged  steeps  to  rush. 

The  antlered  king  of  the  shades  to  chase, 

Whose  swiftness  long  maintains  the  race. 

Hark,  the  fierce  halloo  through  the  forest  resounds  ! 

As  full  in  sight  the  wild  stag  bounds; 

Then  darts  away,  like  a  beam  of  light, 

While  the  hunters   pursue  like  a  thunder-cloud  of 

night ! 
Caps  high  are  waved  to  cheer  the  glad  rout. 
While  the  valleys  re-echo  with  their  hoarse  savage 

shout. 
But  here  is  one  of  that  motley  crew 
On  a  shadowy  steed  of  ghastly  hue, 
'Tis  Death  on  his  pale  horse  who  follows  the  throng. 
But  joins  not  the  laugh,  the  shout,  or  the  song. 
Ha !  who  lies  there  with  blood-streaming  wound  ? 
The  young  hunter  his  courser  hath  dashed  to  the 

ground ! 
With  that  sad  groan  fled  his  last  breath — 
Thy  human  game  is  won,  O  Death ! 


282  death's  doings. 

On,  on  his  gay  companions  speed. 

They  heard  not  his  fall,  they  saw  not  his  steed 

Beside  his  master  groaning  lie, 

Lingering  out  life  in  agony ! 

Rose  cloudless  the  hunter's  moon  that  night. 
As  the  horse  and  his  rider  together  lay; 

On  the  blood-stained  stones  fell  her  pale  light. 

That  trembled  at  the  crimson  hue. 

Now  blended  with  the  evening  dew. 
While  paler  than  that  pale  moon-ray 
The  hunter  youth,  at  morn  so  gay. 

Stretched  his  cold  limbs,  forgetful  quite 

Of  the  merry  chase  and  the  banquet  night ! 

Silence  reigned  round  that  lonely  place. 

Far,  far  away  were  the  sons  of  the  chase ; 

Amid  the  hall  in  noisy  glee 

At  feast  and  tipsy  revelry. 

Far,  far  away  was  the  maid  of  truth. 

Who  fondly  loved  that  hunter  youth  ; 

She  gazed  on  the  radiant  star  of  night. 

She  thought  on  her  lover,  and  chid  his  stay. 

She  watched  the  clouds  in  their  lofty  flight 
As  they  crossed  the  moon  in  dim  array ; 

Then  sadly  told  the  lingering  hour, 

As  the  clock  struck  slow  from  the  village  tower  ! 


DEATH  AND    THE  HUNTER. 


283 


Ah !  little  did  she  think  that  moon, 

To  the  night- wearied  pilgrim  so  rich  a  boon  — 

On  the  gore-clotted  locks  of  her  lover  were  flinging 

Its  pitying  beam,  as  cold  he  lay. 

With  death-glazed  eye  by  his  "  gallant  gray," 

While  round  him  the  shadowy  woods  were  ringing 

With  the  dirge  of  the  screech-owl,  whose  frightful 

tones 
Were  mingled  with  the  dying  courser's  groans ! 

J.  F.  P. 


284 


THE  FATAL  GATE 


Stay — stay — young  Nimrod  !  reign  thy  steed. 
For  there  is  one  who  mocks  thy  speed ; 
I  see  him  on  thy  path  obtrude ; — 
Pursuer ! — thou  hast  been  pursued. 

Expert  thou  art,  and  strong  thy  horse. 
But  what  avails  or  skill  or  force  ? 
That  hoof  of  horn  is  cased  in  steel — 
An  arrow  pierced  Achilles'  heel. 

Then  pause  awhile,  the  peril  shun. 

Tempt  not  yon  bar — Fate  lurks  beneath ; 

Infatuate  fool ! — the  deed  is  done  ; 
That  gate  hath  proved  the  gate  of  Death. 

H.  D. 


285 


THE   HUNTER'S  LEAP. 


Tom  Headlong  was  a  lover  of  the  ohase — 
We  want  a  stronger  name  than  that  of  lover — 

His  day  was  but  a  long-continued  race. 
The  only  plan  Tom  had  to  get  time  over. 

Who  thought  Life's  movements  nothing  had  to  boast. 
Unless  its  rate  was  that  of  going  post. 

His  conversation  had  no  other  course 
Than  that  presented  to  his  simple  view ; 

Of  what  concerned  his  saddle,  groom,  or  horse. 
Beyond  this  theme  he  little  cared  or  knew  : 

Tell  him  of  beauty,  and  harmonious  sounds. 

He'd  show  his  mare,  and  talk  about  his  hounds. 

Oh,  fam'd  Pythagoras  !  would  but  thy  plan 
Of  transmigration  find  belief  in  many, 

'Twould  check  at  least  some  cruelty  in  man. 
To  think  he  must  become  the  brute,  if  any 

Had  suffered  from  him  in  its  worldly  station. 

For  then  he'd  fear  a  just  retaliation. 


286  death's  doings. 

But  this,  you'll  say,  is  nothing  but  digression — 
Contrivance  to  prolong  a  simple  tale — 

Or  else  to  make  a  figure  in  expression, 
A  sort  of  make-weight  if  your  story  fail, — 

So,  to  be  brief,  we'll  use  no  more  delay. 

But  put  the  mighty  Hunter  on  his  way. 

The  gallant  bay  that  Headlong  mounted,  then. 
Would  something  have  to  urge  in  its  defence. 

If  in  its  course  of  speed  it  fail'd,  and  when 

It  barely  cleared  the  mound,  the  dyke,  the  fence. 

That  in  its  hoof  a  nail  was  pressing  sore. 

And  damped  its  ardour,  though  it  could  no  more. 

But  now  the  scent  is  gaining  on  the  wind. 
The  sounds  of  sylvan  war  are  on  the  ear; 

The  generous  courser,  never  left  behind. 
Springs  to  the  cry, — his  rivals  in  the  rear 

Follow,  but  where  his  onward  pace  is  bent, 

As  if  to  yield  the  palm  they  gave  consent. 

Awhile  the  efforts  of  the  generous  steed 

(CheerM  by  the  hounds  and  hunter's  loud  halloo). 

Sustained  the  conflict  with  his  wonted  speed, — 
And  now  the  distant  game  is  in  his  view  ; 

But  here  a  check,  a  momentary  pause ; 

And  for  the  leap,  the  hunter  bridle  draws. 


THE  hunter's  leap.  ^87 

Nor  slack  the  gallant  bay — his  chest  he  bears 
In  act  to  spring,  when  now  the  topmost  bar 

Strikes  the  pain'd  hoof — and  vainly  now  he  rears — 
His  efforts  fail, — he  falls— and  distant  far 

The  prostrate  rider  feels  (with  parting  breath 

And  shortened  sobs)  the  icy  hand  of  Death. 

The  merry  sportsmen  pass  him  by. 

And  deem  some  stunning  blow 
Has  laid  him, — so  they  let  him  lie. 

While  on  they  cheering  go. 
But  none  take  warning  by  his  fate, 
Though  Death  upon  the  leap  should  wait. 

Simon  Surefoot. 


288 


CHILDE    THE    HUNTER. 


{By  the  Author  of  "  Dartmoor") 


Few  roam  the  heath,  e'en  when  the  sun 

The  golden  sun  is  high  ; — 
And  the  leaping,  laughing  streams  are  bright. 

And  the  lark  is  in  the  sky. 

But  when  upon  the  ancient  hills 

Descends  the  giant  cloud, 
And  the  lightning  leaps  from  Tor  to  Tor, 

And  the  thunder-peal  is  loud : — 

Heaven  aid  that  hapless  traveller  then 

Who  o'er  the  wild  may  stray. 
For  bitter  is  the  moorland  storm. 

And  man  is  far  away. 

Yet  blithe  the  highland  hunter  leaves 

His  cot  at  early  morn. 
And  on  the  ear  of  Winter  pours 

The  music  of  his  horn  : — 


CHILDE  THE  HUNTER.  289 

The  eye  of  highland  hunter  sees 

No  terrors  in  the  cloud ; 
His  heart  quakes  not  at  the  lightning  flash, 

Nor  the  thunder  long  and  loud ! 

Yet  oft  the  shudd'ring  peasant  tells 

Of  him  in  days  of  yore. 
Who  in  the  sudden  snow-storm  fell — 

The  Nimrod  of  the  moor  ! 

And  when  the  Christmas  tale  goes  round 

By  many  a  peat  fireside. 
The  children  list,  and  shrink  to  hear 

How  Childe  of  Plymstoke  died. 

The  lord  of  manors  fair  and  broad, — 

Of  gentle  blood  was  he, — 
Who  loved  full  well  the  mountain  chase 

And  mountain  liberty. 

Slow  broke  the  cheerless  morn — the  cloud 

Wreathed  every  moorland  hill ; 
And  the  thousand  brooks  that  cheer'd  the  heath 

In  sunny  hours,  were  still. 


290  death's  doings. 

For  "Winter's  wizard  spell  had  check'd 

Their  all-rejoicing  haste ; 
And  flung  a  fearful  silence  o'er 

The  solitary  waste. 

When  Childe  resolved  with  hound  and  horn, 

To  range  the  forest  wide  ; 
And  seek  the  noble  red-deer  where 

The  Plym's  dark  waters  glide. 

Of  sportsmen  brave,  who  hunted  then 

The  leader  bold  was  he. 
And  full  in  the  teeth  of  the  dread  north  wind 

He  led  that  company. 

They  rous'd  the  red-deer  from  his  lair. 
Where  those  dark  waters  glide ; — 

And  swifter  than  the  gale  he  fled 
Across  the  forest  wide. 

With  cheer  and  with  shout,  the  jovial  rout 

The  old  Tor  hurried  by  ; 
And  they  startled  the  morn,  with  the  merry  horn 

And  the  stanch  hound's  echoing  cry. 


CHILDE  THE  HUNTER.  291 

The  moorland  eagle  left  his  cliff — 

The  hawk  soar'd  far  away — 
And  with  that  shout  and  cheer  they  scar'd 

The  raven  from  his  prey. 

They  followed  through  the  rock-strew'd  glen;— 
They  plung'd  through  the  river's  bed  ; — 

And  scal'd  the  hill-top  where  the  Tor 
Uplifts  his  hoary  head. 

That  gallant  deer  with  an  arrow's  speed 

Launch'd  by  an  archer  strong, 
O'er  hill  and  plain — through  brake  and  fen 

Bore  still  his  course  along. 

Now  through  the  flashing  stream  he  darts, 

The  wave  aside  he  flings ; — 
Now  o'er  the  cataract's  bright  arch 

With  fearless  leap  he  springs  ! 

And  many  a  chasm  yawning  wide 
With  a  desperate  bound  he  clears-; — 

Anon  like  a  shadow  he  glances  by 
The  rock  of  six  thousand  years  ! 
u 


292  death's  doings. 

But  now  swift  sailing  on  the  wind 
The  bursting  cloud  drew  near  ; 

And  there  were  sounds  upon  the  gale. 
Might  fill  the  heart  with  fear  ! 

And  one  by  one,  as  fast  the  clouds 

The  face  of  heav'n  deform. 
Desert  the  chase  and  wildly  shun 

The  onset  of  the  storm. 

And  some  there  were,  who  deem'd  they  heard 

Strange  voices  in  the  blast ; — 
And  some — that  on  the  shudd'ring  view, 

A  form  mysterious  pass'd ; — 

Who  rode  a  shadowy  courser,  that 

A  mortal  steed  might  seem  ; — 
But  left  no  hoof-mark  on  the  ground. 

No  foam  upon  the  stream ! 

'Twas  fancy  all ; — yet  from  his  side, 

The  jovial  crew  are  gone  ; 
And  Childe  across  the  desert  heath 

Pursues  his  way — alone. 


CHILDE  TF4E  HUNTER.  293 

He  threaded  many  a  mazy  bog, — 
He  dashed  through  many  a  stream ; — 

But  lost — bewilder'd — check'd  his  steed, 
At  evening's  latest  gleam. 

For  far  and  wide  the  highland  lay 

One  pathless  waste  of  snow. 
He  paus'd — the  angry  hcav'n  above. 

The  faithless  bog  below. 

He  pausM  ! — and  soon  through  all  his  veins 

Life's  current  feebly  ran  ; 
And — heavily — a  mortal  sleep 

Crept  o'er  the  dying  man  : 

The  dying  man — yet  Love  of  Life 

In  this  his  hour  of  need, 
Uprais'd  the  master's  hand  to  spill. 

The  heart-blood  of  his  steed  ! 

And  on  th'  ensanguin'd  snow  that  steed 

Hath  stretched  his  noble  form  ; — 
A  shelter  from  the  biting  blast — 

A  bulwark  to  the  storm  : — 
u2 


294  death's  doings. 

In  vain — for  swift  the  bleak  wind  pil'd 

The  snow-drift  round  the  corse  ; 
And  Death,  his  victim  struck  within 
■  The  disembowell'd  horse. 

Yet  one  dear  wish — one  tender  thought 
Came  o'er  that  hunter  brave  ; — 

To  sleep  at  last  in  hallow'd  ground. 
And  find  a  Christian  grave — 

And  ere  he  breath'd  his  latest  sigh. 
And  day's  last  gleam  was  spent. 

He  with  unfaltering  finger  wrote 
His  bloody  *  testament. 


*  ^Ije  fyrstc  tfiat  fgn&cs  axiis  brings  tnc  to  mg  grabc 
CTjE  lantrs  of  ^Igmstofte  fjc  sl&al  fiabe. 

A  tradition  has  existed  in  the  Moor,  and  is  noticed  by  several  au- 
thors, that  John  Childe,  of  Plymstock,  a  gentleman  of  large  posses- 
sions, and  a  great  hunter,  whilst  enjoying  that  amusement  during  an 
inclement  season,  was  benighted,  lost  his  way,  and  perished  through 
cold,  near  Fox  Tor,  in  the  south  quarter  of  the  forest ;  after  taking  the 
precaution  to  kill  his  horse,  and,  for  the  sake  of  warmth,  to  creep  into 
its  bowels,  leaving  a  paper  denoting  that  whoever  should  bury  his  body 
should  have  his  lands  at  Plymstock. 

Childe  had  previously  declared  his  intention  to  bestow  his  lands  on 
the  church  wherein  he  mio;ht  be  buried,  and  these  circumstances  com- 


GHILDE  THE  HUNTER.  295 

ing  to  the  knowledge  of  the  monks  of  Tavistock,  they  eagerly  seized 
the  body  and  were  conveying  it  to  that  place ;  but  learning,  on  the 
way,  that  some  people  of  Plymstock  were  waiting  at  a  ford  to  intercept 
the  prey,  they  cunningly  ordered  a  bridge  to  be  built  out  of  the  usual 
track,  thence  pertinently  called  Guile  Bridge,  and,  succeeding  in  their 
object,  became  possessed  of,  and  enjoyed  the  lands  until  the  dissolution, 
when  the  Russel  family  received  a  grant  of  them,  and  it  still  retains 
them. 

In  memory  of  Cliilde  a  tomb  was  erected  to  him  in  a  plain  a  little 
below  Fox  Tor,  which  was  standing  about  fifteen  years  since,  when 
Mr.  Windeatt,  having  received  a  new  take  or  allotment,  in  which  the 
tomb  was  included,  nearly  destroyed  it,  by  appropriating  some  of  the 
stones  for  building  and  door  steps  !  (Its  form  is  correctly  preserved  in 
one  of  the  vignettes  belonging  to  the  poem  Dartmoor).  The  whole, 
when  perfect,  wore  an  antique  and  impressive  appearance. 

The  author  of  this  note  found  the  socket  and  groove  for  the  cross, 
and  part  of  the  cross  itself,  during  an  excursion  in  the  south  quarter  of 
the  moor,  in  the  summer  of  1824.  The  socket  had  been  sunk  into  the 
ground  by  some  friendly  hand,  and  the  remains  of  the  cross  placed  in 
it  j  but  as  it  was  near  the  road  side  leading  from  Cadaford  Bridge  to 
Ivy  Bridge,  he  took  the  cross  out,  and  placed  it  by  the  side  of  the 
groove,  to  prevent  the  too  probable  mischief  which  its  prominent  situa- 
tion might  occasion  to  it  from  any  Visigoth  who  might  be  disposed 
still  further  to  injure  the  venerable  remains. 

N.  T.  C. 


290 


THE    ALCHYMIST. 


Toiling  from  eve  to  morn,  and  morn  to  eve. 
Himself  deceiving — others  to  deceive, 
Behold  the  Alchymist !     On  dreams  intent. 
The  better  portion  of  his  life  is  spent ; 
Though  disappointed  ever, — still  the  same. 
He  calmly  lays  on  accident,  the  blame  ; 
Nor  palsied  form,  pale  face,  and  sunken  eye. 
Can  to  his  firm  opinions  give  the  lie. 
Existence  wanes  amid  these  dreary  sports. 
His  only  friends  are  crucibles,  retorts ; 
Jealous  of  fame  -yet  certain  to  excel, 
He  labours  lonely  in  his  secret  cell ; 
What  shadowy  form  doth  now  his  bellows  ply. 
And  smiles  a  ghastly  smile  on  Alchymy! 
'Tis  Death  /— th'  elixir's  spilt — and  lost  the  prize. 
And  in  the  folly  of  his  life  he  dies. 

J.  J.  L. 


THE  ALCHYMI.^X 


297 


CONTENTMENT, 

THE   TRUE    ALCHYMY    OF   LIFE. 


Ages  roll  on;  but  man,  unchanging  still. 

O'er  Mammon's  furnace  bends  with  ceaseless  care. 

Fans  it  with  sighs,  and  seeks,  with  subtlest  skill. 
The  mystic  stone ; — yet  never  finds  it  there. 

What  if  possest  ? — its  price  is  faded  health ; 

Death  comes  at  last,  and  speaks  these  words  of 
Fate  :— 
"  If  all  were  gold,  then  gold  no  more  were  wealth !" 

Too  fatal  truth  ! — and  learnt,  alas !  too  late. 

Contentment !  angel  of  the  placid  brow ! 

Thine  is  the  bright  and  never-fading  gem — 
The  stone  of  true  philosophy,  which  thou 

Hast  placed  beyond  the  regal  diadem. 


298  death's  doings. 

Sweet  Alchymist !  for  thee  how  few  will  spurn 
Wealth's  glittering  chains,  though  happier  far  to 
hold 

That  hallowed  talisman  whose  touch  can  turn 
Life's  seeming  ills  to  more  than  Fortune's  gold. 

Thine  is  the  Eldorado  of  the  heart  : 

The  halcyon  clime  of  cloudless  peace  is  thine  : 
Angel !  to  me  that  sacred  gift  impart, 
r^  And  let  me  ever  worship  at  thy  shrine. 

H.  D, 


299 


ALCHYMY. 


To  solemnize  this  day,  the  glorious  Sun 
Stays  in  his  course,  and  plays  the  Alchymist, 
Turning  with  splendour  of  his  precious  eye 
Tlie  meagre  cloddy  earth  to  glitt'ring  gold." 

Shakspcare. 


"  \_A7i  explosion  within,^ 
"  Subtle. — God,  and  all  Saints,  be  good  to  us  !     What's  that? 
Face. — O,  Sir,  we  are  defeated  !     All  the  works 

Are  flown  in  fumo :  ev'ry  glass  is  burst — 
Furnace  and  all,  rent  down ! — As  if  a  bolt 
Had  thunder'd  thro'  the  house. 
Retorts,  receivers,  pellicans,  bolt-heads. 
All  struck  in  shivers ! 

^Subtle  falls  down.^ 
Help,  good  Sir  !     Alas, 
Coldness  and  Death  invade  him !" 

Ben  Jonson's  Alchymist. 


Alchymy,  the  pretended  art  of  prolonging  life  by 
a  panacea,  of  transmuting  the  baser  metals  into 
gold,  and  other  wonders,  affects  also  the  highest  an- 
tiquity ;  it  is  however  probably  the  fruit  of  igno- 
rance, grafted  upon  the  remains  of  ancient  chymistry 


300  death's  doings. 

about  the  time  of  the  revival  of  learning  in  Europe. 
Its  evil  was  in  giving  birth  to  some  of  those  bubbles 
by  which  knavery  is  ever  preying  upon  folly  and 
avidity  :  its  good  has  been  the  fortuitous  discove- 
ries to  which  we  owe  the  progress  of  medicine,  chy- 
mistry,  and  the  arts — a  Lavoisier,  a  Cavendish,  and 
a  Davy ! 

If  still  there  is  any  one  who  aims  at  the  alkahest, 
universal  solvent,  or  elixir  of  life, — if  he  would  ob- 
tain the  philosopher's  stone  which  transmutes  the 
metals,  or  if  he  would  discover  the  elements  of  mat- 
ter, let  him  not  apply  to  Sir  Humphrey  for  his  elec- 
tro-chyraical  apparatus  which  severed  the  alkalis, — 
nor  seek,  with  safety  in  the  midst  of  danger,  the  ex- 
plosive mines  of  the  earth  by  the  light  of  his  Davy, 
— nor  tempt  the  ocean  in  search  of  these  wonders 
sheathed  and  shielded  by  his  Protectors : — let  him 
not  trouble  himself  with  the  salt,  sulphur,  and  mer- 
cury of  the  Adepti.*  Above  all,  let  him  not  seek 
the  aid  of  Aureolus  Philippus  Paracelsus  Theo- 
phrastus  Bombastus  de  Hoenheim,^  for  they  will  all 

*  The  Alchymists  have  a  tradition,  that  there  are  always  twelve 
Adepti,  or  possessors  of  the  philosopher's  stone,  panacea,  &c. ;  and 
that,  as  frequently  as  they  are  exploded  by  Death,  their  places  are 
supplied  by  new  Adepts. 

t  Faraci'lsus  boasted  of  being  able,  by  his  cliri?'  p-opi'ktatis,  to  pro  • 


ALGHYMY.  301 

equally  fail  him ;  while  there  is  one  so  rich  and 
knowing  in  hermetic  art,  that  the  elements,  the 
philosopher's  stone,  and  the  alkahest,  are  all  at  his 
finger's  ends, — one  (the  sole  hope  of  the  alchymist) 
who  can  analyze  all,  transmute  all,  and  dissolve  all ! 
— The  greatest  of  chymists  ! — the  Davy  of  Davys ! 
OLD   DAVY!! 

Accordingly,  in  the  design  before  us,  the  artist  has 
intvoduced  the  Alchymist  at  his  furnace,  anxiously 
watching  his  crucible,  while  the  elixir  of  life  is  run- 
ning out,  and  Death,  unperceived,  is  blowing  the 
coals,  holding  in  his  hand  the  powder  of  projection 
which  is  about  to  consummate  by  an  explosion  the 
deluded  Alchymist  and  his  vain  endeavours. 

long  the  life  of  man  to  the  age  of  Methusalah, — nor  is  this  wonderful 
in  one  who  declared  he  held  conversation  with  Gakn  and  Avkenna  at 
the  gates  of  Hell,  and  obtained  secrets  in  physic  from  the  Devil  him- 
self.— Nevertlieless,  Death,  envious  of  his  power,  overturned  his  elixir, 
and  took  him  off  in  revenge,  at  a  little  more  than  40  years  of  age,  that 
he  might  not  depopulate  by  his  art  the  grim  empire  of  the  King  of 
Terrors. 

His  followers  believe,  however,  ♦*  that  he  is  not  dead,  but  still  lives 
in  his  tomb,  whither  he  retired,"  (like  -Johanna  Southcot,  and  like  her 
too,)  "  weary  of  the  vices  and  follies  of  mankind  !"  Notwithstanding 
all  the  extravagances  of  Par-acelsus,  the  world  is  indebted  to  him  for 
many  useful  discoveries ;  and  it  is  still  a,  question  whether  himself  or 
Carpue,  a  name  again  to  be  a;ssociated  with  a  Harvey,  an  Ahernethy, 
and  a  Hunter,  first  introduced  mercury  into  medicine ! 


302  death's  doings. 

But  who,  let  us  seriously  inquire,  and  what,  is  this 
all-potent  Alchymist,  Death? 

"  Death  is  Life,  and  Life  is  Death,*'  said  FaitI- 
pides ;  and  so  said  Plato,  and  so  said  the  Eastern 
Sages.  If  then  Death  be  Life,  as  the  wise  and  vir- 
tuous of  all  ages  have  believed,  the  question  recurs, 
what  is  Life  ? 

Life,  says  the  Beauty,  is  admiration  and  gay  at- 
tire;— it  is  dice  and  dash,  says  the  Spendthrift; — it 
is  gain,  says  the  Merchant  and  the  Miser ;  it  is 
power,  says  the  Prince.  Yet  the  Alchymist  looks 
for  it  in  an  elixir.  But  Death  dethrones  the  Prince 
— breaks  the  Merchant  and  Miser — out-dashes  the 
Spendthrift  and  the  Belle,  and  spills  the  elixir  of 
Life. 

Life  is  action,  says  the  Cricketer; — it  is  a  feast, 
says  the  Glutton  ;— it  is  a  bubble,  says  the  Philoso- 
pher: but  Death  bursts  the  Philosopher's  bubble, 
gormandizes  the  Glutton,  and  bowls  out  the  Cricketer. 

It  is  fees,  says  the  Physician ;— it  is  judgment  and 
execution,  says  the  Judge  ;— it  is  all  vanity,  says  the 
Parson :    but  Death  humbles  the  Parson's  vanity. 


ALCHYMY.  303 

executes  the  Judge  and  his  judgments,  and  takes  fee 
of  the  Physician  and  his  Patients  too ! 

Thou  art  then  a  very  Proteus,  Death ;  at  once  a 
Miser,  a  Merchant,  and  a  Prince, — thou  art  a  Game, 
a  Glutton,  and  a  Bubble, — thou  art  Justice  to  the  in- 
jured, a  Physician  to  the  sick,  and  a  humbler  of  Va- 
nity,— thou  art  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  of  Life, 
sporting  with  it  in  every  form,  and  we  have  sported 
with  thee ! 

Thus,  view  them  however  we  may.  Life  and  Death 
are  endless  paradoxes ;  the  love  of  the  one,  and  the 
fear  of  the  other,  are  unquestionably  imprinted  in 
our  nature  for  wise  purposes— they  gain  and  lose 
strength,— they  rise  and  fall — and  in  all  their  move- 
ments they  dance  together. 

That  these  passions,  however  useful  and  neces- 
sary, relatively  to  our  natural  state,  are  equally  vain 
and  fallacious  in  an  absolute  and  moral  sense,  has 
long  been  admitted  by  the  philosopher:  and  that 
they  may  be  so  to  common  sense,  we  have  only  to 
consider  that  it  is  as  natural  to  die  as  to  be  bom — 
that  Death  and  Life  are  merely  figurative  of  the  two 
general   relations,    being  and    cessation;    an<J   that 


304  death's  doings. 

Death,  in  particular,  the  grim  King  of  Terrors,  is 
only  a  personification — the  Pluto  of  the  Poets — an 
animated  skeleton,  or  anatomie  vivante  of  the  ima- 
gination ;  so  that,  as  we  cannot  paint  white  without 
black,  we  cannot  represent  Death  without  Life. 

If  however  these  passions  are  ever  so  vain  and  il- 
lusive, their  effects  are  no  less  actual  and  certain, 
and  of  difficult  mastery  :  it  eminently  deserves  our 
concern,  therefore,  that  we  should  so  cultivate  and 
control  them,  that  we  may  continue  life  with  enjoy- 
ment, and  quit  it  without  regret ;  and  since  it  is  a 
fact,  that  man  loves  and  desires  only  good,  and  fears 
only  ill, — so  long  as  life  is  a  good  he  loves  it,  and 
when  it  becomes  an  evil  he  loathes  it.  The  sum  of 
our  aim  then  is,  that  as  evil  is  but  the  consequence 
of  ill  action,  and  we  dread  not  Death  nor  desire 
Life  for  themselves,  we  have  only  to  act  well,  that 
we  may  live  without  fear,  and  die  without  despair. 

These  impressions  are  accordingly  strongest  in 
early  life,  and,  when  our  course  is  right,  they  appear 
to  decline  as  we  advance,  and  to  become  ultimately 
feeble  and  extinct ;  so  that  by  degrees,  beautifully 
suited  to  a  virtuous  progress.  Heaven  disengages  us 
altogether  from  the  love  of  Life  and  the  fear  of 
Death. 


ALCHYMY.  305 

Having  disposed  of  the  great  Transmuter  and  his 
elder  children,  let  us  turn  our  eye,  ere  we  close,  to 
the  more  recent  ofllspring  of  the  Plutonic  family, 
many  of  whom  are  no  less  worthy  of  celebrity  than 
their  elder  brethren,  and  of  whom,  particularly  de- 
serving of  record,  are  Goldman,  formerly  of  the 
King's  Mews, — Peter  Woulfe,  of  Barnard's  Inn,  and 
the  renowned  Sigismund  Bcestrom,  (with  whose  pre- 
fixes and  affixes  we  are  not  acquainted,  but)  whose 
father  was  (as  he  averred)  physician  to  Frederic  the 
Great.  There  are  yet  living  those  who  mourn  the 
memory  of  Baestrom,  who,  alas  I  having  consumed 
all  the  gold  he  could  lay  his  hands  on  in  search  of 
the  philosopher's  fitone,— finished  his  projection  a 
debtor  in  the  King's  Bench. 

As  to ,  he  CONSUMED  his  coals 

at  an  apartment  in  the  Mews,  which  he  enjoyed 
through  royal  bounty,  and  where,  deeply  engaged 
one  night  amid  his  retorts  and  athanors  by  the  glim- 
mer of  a  small  lamp,  a  luckless  wight  of  a  chimney- 
sweeper, or  as  some  say  a  stoaker,  crept  in  unper- 
ceived,  and  peeped  over  the  old  man's  shoulder,  who, 
happening  to  turn  round,  and  seeing,  as  he  imagined, 
the  Devil  at  his  elbow,  became  so  alarmed,  that  he 
never  recovered  the  shock,  but  died — and  with  him, 
perhaps,  one  of  the  last  of  the  Adepti. 


306  death's  doings. 

We  say  perhaps  ?  For  the  ashes  of  Alchymy  are 
still  hot.  That  it  should  yet  occupy  ardent  imagi- 
nations amid  the  gloom,  poverty,  and  oppression  of 
the  forests  of  Germany,  is  not  so  astonishing,  as  that 
it  should  still  have  votaries  in  the  metropolis  of 
Britain,  where  the  light  shines  upon  the  free,  and  so 
many  easier  ways  of  making  gold  are  known,  and 
that  there  should  be  still  found  persons  of  reputed 
understanding  who  are  willing  to  be  deluded  by  men, 
wretchedly  poor,  who  profess  the  art  of  making  gold! 

But  imagination  has  ever  been  the  tyrant  of  the 
mind,  exciting  enthusiasm,  of  which  knavery  takes 
advantage,  and  folly  is  the  food  it  feeds  on. 


*^*  Those  who  would  enter  further  into  the  history  of  Alchymy 
may  consult  Boerhavej  and  for  later  information,  "  A  Sketch  of  the 
History  of  Alchymy,"  by  Mr.  Brande,  in  the  New  Annual  Register 
for  1819. 


G.  F. 


ACA]D)EMIC    IH[0:^0]R§. 


307 


ACADEMIC  HONOURS. 


Under  the  shadow  of  green  laurel  leaves 

The  poet  marcheth,  with  unfaltering  breath ; 
And  from  the  glory  which  his  fancy  weaves 

Draws  strength,  which  tincteth  the  wan  cheeks  of 
Death : 
Under  the  shadow  of  the  laurel  green 

The  soldier  smileth ;  and  wayfaring  men 
Piercing  the  desert  with  proud  looks  are  seen. 

And  hoary  seamen  face  wild  waves  again  : 
But  chief,  *midst  hopes  untried,  with  fear  afar. 

The  young  pale  scholar  seeks  some  dim  renown. 
Misled  by  influence  of  deceitful  star. 

To  where  Death  hides  behind  the  laurel  crown  : 
Alas,  grey  age  and  pallid  youth  the  same ! 

All  leave  fair  truth,  to  clutch  the  phantom — Fame  ! 

Barry  Cornwall. 


308 


THE    MARTYR    STUDENT. 

(By  the  Author  of  "  Dartmoor") 


"  O  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone, 

When  Science'  self  destroy'd  her  favourite  son .' 
Yes  .'  she  too  much  indulg'd  thy  fond  pursuit, — 
She  sow'd  the  seeds,  but  Death  has  reap'd  the  fruit." 

Hyron. 


List  not  Ambition's  call,  for  she  has  lur'd 
To  Death  her  tens  of  thousands,  and  her  voice. 
Though  sweet  as  the  old  syren's,  is  as  false  ! 
Won  by  her  blandishments,  the  warrior  seeks 
The  battle-field  where  red  Destruction  waves 
O'er  the  wild  plain  his  banner,  trampling  down 
The  dying  and  the  dead  ; — on  Ocean's  wave 
Braving  the  storm — the  dark  lee-shore — the  fight- 
The  seaman  follows  her,  to  fall — at  last 
In  Victory's  gory  arms.     To  Learning's  sons 
She  promises  the  proud  degree — the  praise 
Of  academic  senates,  and  a  name 
That  Fame  on  her  imperishable  scroll 


THE  MARTYR  STUDENT.  309 

Shall  deeply  'grave.     O,  there  was  one  who  heard 
Her  fatal  promptings — whom  the  Muses  mourn 
And  Genius  yet  deplores  !     In  studious  cell 
Immur'd,  he  trimm'd  his  solitary  lamp. 
And  morn,  unmark'd,  upon  his  pallid  cheek 
Oft  flung  her  ray,  ere  yet  the  sunken  eye 
Reluctant  clos'd,  and  sleep  around  his  couch 
Strew'd  her  despised  poppies.     Day  with  night 
Mingled — insensibly — and  night  with  day  ; — 
In  loveliest  change  the  seasons  came — and  pass'd — 
Spring  woke,  and  in  her  beautiful  blue  sky 
Wander'd  the  lark — the  merry  birds  beneath 
Pour'd  their  sweet  woodland  poetry — the  streams 
Sent  up  their  eloquent  voices — all  was  joy 
And  in  the  breeze  was  life.     Then  Summer  gemm'd 
The  sward  with  flowers,  as  thickly  strewn  as  seem 
In  heaven  the  countless  clustering  stars.     By  day 
The  grateful  peasant  pour'd  his  song, — by  night 
The  nightingale ; — he  heeded  not  the  lay 
Divine  of  earth  or  sky — the  voice  of  streams — 
Sunshine  and  shadow— and  the  rich  blue  sky  ;~ 
Nor  gales  of  fragrance  and  of  life  that  cheer 
The  aching  brow — relume  the  drooping  eye 
And  fire  the  languid  pulse.     One  stern  pursuit — 
One  master-passion  master'd  all — and  Death 
Smil'd  inly  as  Consumption  at  his  nod 
Poison'd  the  springs  of  life,  and  flush'd  the  cheek 

X  2 


310  death's  doings. 

With  roses  that  bloom  only  o'er  the  grave ; 
And  in  that  eye,  which  once  so  mildly  beam'd, 
Kindled  unnatural  fires ! 

Yet  hope  sustain'd 
His  sinking  soul,  and  to  the  high  reward 
Of  sleepless  nights  and  watchful  days — and  scorn 
Of  pleasure,  and  the  stern  contempt  of  ease. 
Pointed  exultingly.     But  Death,  who  loves 
To  blast  Hope's  fairest  visions,  and  to  dash. 
In  unsuspected  hour,  the  cup  of  bliss 
From  man's  impatient  lip — with  horrid  glance 
Mark'd  the  young  victim,  as  with  flutt'ring  step 
And    beating    heart,    and    cheek    with    treach'rous 

bloom 
SufFus'd,  he  press'd  where  Science  op'd  the  gates 
Of  her  high  temple. 

There  beneath  the  guise 
Of  Learning's  proud  professor,  sat  enthron'd 
The  tyrant — D  eath  : — and  as  around  the  brow 
Of  that  ill-fated  votary,  he  wreath 'd 
The  crown  of  Victory — silently  he  twin'd 
The  cypress  with  the  laurel ; — at  his  foot 
Perish'd  the  "  Martyr  Student  !" 

N.  T.  C. 


311 


THE  ACADEMIC  ASPIRANT. 


With  form  attenuated  by  disease. 

With  paly  cheek,  and  bloodless  lip,  he  stands 

The  victim  of  his  worth.     All  save  the  eye 

Hath  sadly  changed  ; — that  undismayed  yet  gleams 

The  noble  beacon  of  a  noble  soul ! 

Consumption  shakes  the  tendons  of  his  life. 

And  holds  a  fevered  revel  in  his  heart ; — 

He  heeds  it  not — but  as  his  body  wastes. 

The  spirit  gathers  greater  strength,  and  sheds 

On  the  admiring  world  supernal  light. 

Renown,  on  its  swift  pinion,  blazons  forth 

The  glory  of  his  name,  and  sages  hail 

And  praise  him — fairest  lips  recite  his  verse. 

And  nations  arm  them  when  he  sings  of  war. 

Alas,  that  eloquence  will  soon  be  mute — 

That  harp,  unstrung,  shall  lose  its  loveliness. 

Nor  know  its  own  sweet  sound  again.     No  more 

Shall  woman's  eye  behold  its  light  approach, — 

No  more  her  dulcet  voice  (by  passion  taught). 


312 


DEATH  S     DOINGS. 


To  her  young  soul  shall  whisper  dreamy  love, 
And  make  her  startle  even  at  herself.  * 

Love  and  its  light  are  now  evanishing ; 
Life  and  its  bliss  do  tremble  at  the  Shade 
That  stands  before  him.     He  beholds  it  not — 
See,  in  its  sallow  hand  is  held  a  wreath 
Of  laurel  leaves,  so  fresh,  they  seem  to  mock 
That  withering  grasp.     A  smile  is  on  his  cheek — 
His  eye  looks  dark  with  thought — his  dreams  are  of 
The  coming  time — and  Hope  is  bright  within — 
Slowly  the  wreath  now  falls — the  hand  of  Death 
Hath  placed  the  fadeless  verdure  on  his  brow. 
And  he  is  not  of  life. 

J.  J.  L. 


irt    "^ 


313 


ACADEMIC  PURSUITS. 


There's  honour  for  you !" — Shakspeare. 


Like  you  such  grinning  honour?  You  will  pro- 
bably answer.  No.  Why,  then,  before  you  engage 
in  the  widely-different,  but  no  less  hazardous  war- 
fare of  words  and  arguments,  propositions  and  dis- 
quisitions, reply  and  rejoinder,  with  the  long  train  of 
important  etceteras,  do,  my  young  and  sanguine 
friend,  take  a  peep  into  a  pericranium — examine  the 
filmy  texture  of  the  brain,  and  the  cobweb  character 
of  those  fibres  which  compose  its  substance ;  from 
thence  descend  to  the  region  of  the  stomach,  and 
view  the  connexion  of  its  digestive  powers,  which, 
as  well  as  the  brain,  depend  upon  the  quiet  opera- 
tion of  thought, — which  the  hurry  of  passion,  the 
ardour  of  pursuit,  or  the  no  less  dangerous  tendency 
of  rigid  and  intense  application,  may  destroy — and 
you  may  perhaps  be  inclined  to  pause  upon  the  ad- 
venture, to  examine  your  strength  for  the  combat, 
to  weigh  the  chances  of  the  game,  and  to  look  a 


314  death's  doings. 

little  more  minutely  at  the  nature  of  the  trophies 
you  expect  to  carry  away  ;  and  then^  having  taken 
a  cool  and  deliberate  view  of  the  question,  you  may 
venture  to  ask— Can  I  sit  quietly  down  under  these 
laureled  honours,  to  the  enjoyment  of  books, 
"friendship,  and  retired  leisure?" 

Retired  leisure !  where  is  it  to  be  found  ?     Not  in 
this  bustling,  cheating,  and  worrying  world.     No; 
not  even  "  stalled  theology"  will  now  allow  it.     Wc 
do  not  live  in  monkish  times  ;  there  are  duties  to  be 
performed,  there  are  hungry  expectants, — enemies  to 
be  watched,  vigilant  to  observe  omissions,  and  ready 
to  mark  or  make  lapses  in  your  conduct.     In  short, 
the  path  to  preferment  has  not  been  Macadamized ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  such  deep  ruts  have  been  made 
by  the  jostling  and  jumbling  of  every  sort  of  vehicle 
on  the  road,  that,  through  the  haste  of  some,  and  the 
tardiness  of  others,   not  one  in  ten  arrives  at  his 
Living  in  a  whole  skin,  or,  at  least,  without  having 
been  in  imminent  danger  of  destruction.     I  see  you 
smile;— you  have  been  at  Oxford, — have  some  skill 
in  driving,   and  can  quarter  the  road  with  any  four- 
in-hand  whip  among  them.     Well,  sir!    take  your 
own  course  ;  but  remember,  if  you  attain  to  a  mitre, 
it  will  not  be  decorated  like  that  of  a  Leo,  but  plain. 


ACADEMIC  PURSUITS.  315 

cumbrous,  and  heavy,  like  the  disproportioned  and 
enormous  caps  of  our  grenadiers.  You  must  toil 
under  its  pressure.  Again  you  smile.— Oh,  the 
church  is  not  your  aim  ? — it  is  literature, — polite 
literature ;  aye,  that  is  quite  another  thing — I  see 
you  are  viewing  a  garland  in  imagination,  made  up 
of  the  flowers  of  literature,  and  feasting  upon  the 
fruits  in  the  same  Barmecide  way.  To  be  sure, 
there  are  a  few  thorns  in  that  passage  to  fame  and 
fortune ;  which,  in  the  shape  of  critics,  catch  at  you 
as  you  pass,  till  you  arrive  ragged  and  stript  at  the 
end  of  your  journey.  But  should  the  contrary  of 
this  happen,  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  reach  the 
mansion  of  your  bookseller,  the  haven  where  you 
would  be — and  present  yourself  to  the  porter  at  the 
gate — a  sort  of  Castle-of-Indolence-man,  but  only  so 
in  appearance;  for  he  will  first  look  narrowly  at 
your  dress,  and  if  it  has  come  off  without  many  rents 
from  the  aforesaid  thorns,  he  will  let  you  into  the 
hall  or  entry,  and,  according  to  your  appearance, 
will  desire  you  to  take  a  chair,  or,  perhaps,  refresh- 
ment; but  have  a  care  of  this,  and  remember  what 
is  said  in  the  Proverbs  about  "  deceitful  meat." 
Here  you  will  undergo  a  sort  of  craniological  exami- 
nation. Your  skull  must  serve  various  purposes  ; 
will  the  OS  frontis  do  for  a  battering-ram  ? — can  it  be 


316  death's  doings. 

levelled  with  advantage  against  church  or  state  ? — 
has  it  the  organ  of  forgetfulness  sufficiently  marked 
for  a  convenient  oblivion  of  what  you  advance  one 
day  to  be  denied  on  the  next?  These,  with  various 
other  powers  and  capabilities,  will  be  carefully 
noted ;  and  last,  and  not  the  least  of  his  inquiries, 
will  be  (but  this  will  be  managed  aside),  whether 
your  skull  will  make  a  good  drinking  cup,  and  whe- 
ther its  shape  and  texture  are  best  suited  to  hold 
port,  claret,  or  champagne.  What !  you  are  grin- 
ning  still,    and  you  don't  believe  a  word  of  this  ? 

You  can  get  an  introduction  to  Mr.  M y;  aye,  it 

may  be  so, — or  to  the  King's  Bench, — or  to  Bedlam, 

l-^y  ^  ^  ip-  TT  ■TT  4ic 

*  Well — there  I'll  leave  you. 

Proteus. 


-*-*,^ 


THE    :EM]PIEIC. 


317 


THE   EMPIRIC. 


Quacks  !  high  and  low — whate'er  your  occupation — 
I  hate  ye  all ! — but,  ye  remorseless  crew. 

Who,  with  your  nostrums,  thin  the  population, 
A  more  especial  hate  I  bear  tow'rds  you — 

You,  who're  regardless  if  you  kill  or  cure, — 

Who  lives,  or  dies — so  that  of  fees  you're  sure  ! 

"  What !"  saith  the  moralist,  "  are  any  found 

So  base,  so  wondrous  pitiful?" — '*  Aye,  many: — 

In  this  metropolis  vile  Quacks  abound. 

Who'd  poison  you  outright,  to  get  a  penny ; — 

Monsters  !  wlio'd  recklessly  deal  death  around. 

Till  the  whole  globe  were  one  vast  burial-ground  !" 

"  Rail  on  !  abuse  us,  Sir  !"  cries  Doctor  Pill : 

"  While  you're  in  health  it  all  sounds  mighty  clever; 

But  if,  perchance,  again  you're  taken  ill, 
I  shall  be  sent  for  just  the  same  as  ever; 

When  groaning  with  the  gout,  or  teas'd  with  phthisic. 

You'll  gladly  call  me  in,  and  take  my  physic!" 


318  death's  doings. 

"  Save  me,  kind  friends,  from  Doctor  Pill,  I  pray ! 

And  fr7j  to  find  an  honest  one  and  skilful- 
Like  Doctor  Babington  or  Surgeon  Wray, 

Who  none  can  charge  with  blunders  weak  or  wilful ; 
But  let  no  Quack  approach  my  humble  bed. 
To  feel  my  pulse,  and  shake  his  empty  head  !" 

Rather  would  I  "  throw  physic  to  the  dogs ;" 

For,  oh !  through  Quacks,  what  ills  from  physic  flow ! 

It  saps  our  vitals — all  our  functions  clogs — 
And  makes  our  lives  a  scene  of  pain  and  woe  : 

Alas  !  what  tortures  patients  undergo. 

None  but  the  suff'ring  quack-duped  patients  know ! 

And  if,  by  chance,  you  'scape  their  murderous  fangs, 
Gods  !  what  a  fuss  they  make  about  your  cure  ! 

But  if,  worn  out  with  agonizing  pangs. 
You  die — why,  then,  the  malady  was  sure 

To  kill ! — in  truth,  'twas  wonderful,  they'll  say. 

That  Death  so  long  could  have  been  kept  away ! 

See  yon  poor  wretch  !  mere  effigy  of  man  ! 

He'd  faith! — and  all  their  "  grand  specifics"  tried  ; 
For  while  he  trusted  to  the  charlatan. 

He  little  thought  grim  Death  was  by  his  side : 
And  yet  to  him  the  Tyrant  prov'd  a  friend. 
By  bringing  all  his  torments  to  an  end. 


THE   EMPIRIC. 


319 


Oh,  bounteous  Nature  !  friend  of  human  kind ! 

Who  every  heartfelt  joy  of  life  dispenses. 
To  their  best  interests  were  not  mortals  blind. 

Or  would  but  rightly  use  their  boasted  senses. 
They'd  gratefully  obey  thy  wise  commands. 
Nor  trust  their  lives  in  sordid  Emp'rics'  hands. 


Hygeia,  hail !   I'll  drink  at  thy  pure  spring. 
Where  Temperance  and  Exercise  preside  ; 

And,  while  life's  dearest  boon  thy  handmaids  bring. 
Though  from  the  wine-press  flow  the  purple  tide. 

The  tempting  goblet  from  my  lips  I'll  fling. 
Scorning  the  gifts  by  luxury  supplied. 

Hail !  then,  Hygeia,  hail !  "  thee,  goddess,  I  adore," 

For,  blest  with  health,  I'm  rich,— though  scanty  be 
my  store ! 

S.  M. 


320 


THE    MEN    OF    PHYSIC; 

AN  EASTERN  TALE. 


{By  the  Author  of  "  Glances  from  the  Moon.'''') 


It  happened  that  a  certain  absolute  and  capri- 
cious despot  of  an  eastern  province,  on  perceiving, 
after  a  few  years'  domination,  that  the  number  of  his 
subjects  had  considerably  decreased,  instead  of  in- 
stituting a  cautious  inquiry  into  the  possible  causes 
of  this  lowered  population,  determined  to  lay  the 
whole  charge,  the  wonder,  and  the  mischief,  on  the 
professed  practisers  of  what  was  there  termed  the 
healing  art,  but,  according  to  his  princely  suspi- 
cion, the  art  of  poisoning  and  destroying.  Long  did 
he  cherish,  whether  warranted  or  otherwise  doth  not 
clearly  appear,  this  peculiar  sentiment,  strengthened 
by  progressive  observation,  and  now  matured  into 
immoveable  conviction:  and,  indeed,  as  his  pro- 
vince had  neither  been  lately  desolated  by  war,  vi- 


THE  MEN  OF  PHYSIC.  321 

sited  by  pestilence,  nor  reduced  by  famine,  it  be- 
comes possible — ^just  possible  I  mean — that  the  no- 
tion which  this  prince  had  conceived  of  the  blunder- 
ing ways  and  means  exercised  by  the  rnen  of  physic, 
might  not  have  proved  so  fallacious  or  unjust,  as,  on 
first  hearing,  it  should  seem  to  threaten  :  the  less  so, 
because  the  class  of  these  physicians,  or  leeches, 
was  the  only  one  which  had  escaped  the  late  ex- 
amples of  extraordinary  fatality ;  a  phenomenon 
which  was  referred,  for  its  solution,  to  the  commonly 
believed  fact,  that  the  physician  exerciseth  not  his 
art  upon  himself. — But,  let  that  pass. 

And  now,  whether  sanctioned  by  a  rational  proba- 
bility of  a  successful  result,  or  not — whether  right  or 
wrong — he  determined  to  put  the  matter  at  issue  to 
one  grand  and  decisive  experiment.  He  published 
an  edict,  ordering  every  practitioner  of  the  medical 
craft,  of  whatever  degree,  to  quit  the  province  in  the 
course  of  ten  days.  Remonstrance  had  been  vain : 
it  was  the  mandate  of  despotic  authority  :  no  appeal 
remained ;  obedience  was  prompt  and  universal ; 
not  one  professor,  not  a  single  minister  of  physic, 
dared  to  hold  back  and  linger  within  the  lines  of  de- 
markation  after  the  expiration  of  the  period  limited 
by  the  edict. 


322  death's  doings. 

Now,  when  the  news  of  this  extraordinary  decree 
had  reached  and  crept  into  the  ear  of  Death,  his 
jaws  were  presently  screwed  into  a  contemptuous 
grin,  while  meditating  his  purpose.  "  Opposition  to 
my  power,"  he  said,  "  has  always  proved  vain  in  the 
result,  though  whilom  ridiculously  obstinate  and  con- 
tentious. This  prince  shall  quickly  understand  how 
unequal  is  the  contest  which  he  appears  rash  enough 
and  weak  enough  to  wage  with  a  power,  known  by 
universal  experience  to  be  paramount  and  irresis- 
tible." 

Thus  muttered  the  Destroyer. 

Hence  we  pass  on  to  the  expiration  of  that  mea- 
sure of  time  sufficient  for  the  ascertaining  whether 
the  expectations  of  the  prince  were  well  founded 
and  supported. 

Twelve  months  had  now  elapsed,  when,  on  a  nu- 
merical comparison  of  deaths  with  those  of  the  pre- 
ceding year,  they  were  found  in  a  ratio  greatly  di- 
minished, calculating  for  the  lessened  number  of 
souls  occasioned  by  the  absence  of  the  leeches. 
The  discontent  of  the  people  against  their  prince,  and 
their  alarm  for  themselves,  changed  into  reverence 


THE  MEN  OF  PHYSIC.  323 

and  composure.  His  pride  and  self-gratulation  rose 
in  proportion — perhaps  something  out  of  proportion, 
a  mistake  committed  occasionally  even  by  sove- 
reigns— to  flattery  and  applause  :  but  this  prince  had 
never  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  reading  the  poetic 
works  of  Robert  Burns,  where,  amidst  numerous 
pithy  hints  for  the  correction  of  self-misunderstand- 
ing, he  might  have  dropped  upon,  and  profited  by, 
the  following  stanza  : — 

"  Oh,  would  some  power  the  gifty  gee  us^ 
To  see  ourselves  as  others  see  usj 
It  wad  frae  many  a  blunder  free  us, 

And  silly  notion ; 
And  airs  in  gait  and  dress  would  lea'  us, 

And,  e'en,  devotion." 

But,  so  it  was ;  time  was  moving  on  smoothly  and 
kindly  between  prince  and  subject;  each  conciliated 
more  to  each,  and  all  partaking  of  that  increase  of 
pleasurable  feelings  which  is  wont  to  accompany 
and  improve  a  condition  of  bodily  and  mental  health. 

Thus  might  this  happy  province — happy  in  its  de- 
livery from  the  leeches — have  become  the  asylum  of 
health,  and  the  promise  of  longevity ;  but — give  me 
bvts  and  ifs,  as  a  bold  man  was  wont  to  say,  and  I'll 
fight  the  D ;  but, — that  the  dark  malignant  spirit 

Y 


324  death's  doings. 

of  the  mail  whose  "  bones  are  marrowless,"  urged  at 
length  by  the  bitterness  of  disappointment  into 
deadly  wrath  at  the  decrease  of  funerals  and  of 
mourners,  where  his  depredations  had  long  proved 
so  extensive  and  so  frequent,  determined  to  bestir 
himself  for  the  recovery  of  his  business. 

"  I   have/'   muttered    Death,    as  he   stalked   the 
ground,  which  shrank  and  blackened  at  his  tread, 
"  two  considerations  to  resolve  :  first,  what  promises 
to  furnish  the  surest  plan  for  the  restoration  of  the 
wonted,  full,  and  gloomy  callings  of  my  office ;   se- 
condly, by  what  measures  I  shall  most  easily  and 
speedily  succeed  in  it.     Touching  the  first  consider- 
ation," said  Death,  "  I  perceive  it  admits  of  instant 
decision.     The  eft'ects  of  the  decree,  by  which  I  find 
that  the  leeches  were  my  supporters,  my  most  eflec- 
tive  friends,  serve  to  teach  me  that  the  decree  must 
be  unconditionally  reversed ;  the  men  of  physic  must 
be  recalled;  they  must  be  reinstated  in  all  their  pri- 
vileges and  immunities,  and  be  let  loose  as  hereto- 
fore upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  province — of  the 
capital,  more  especially — in  the  unbridled  exercise 
of  their  accustomed  practices.     The  man  of  dry  and 
naked  bones  received  that  sensation  of  sullen  grati- 
fication, when  reflecting  upon   his  plan,  which  no 


THE  MEN  OF  PHYSIC.  325 

other  man  could  feel.  A  half-formed  smile  would 
have  passed  over  his  ghastly  countenance,  signifi- 
cant of  anticipated  success,  but  it  was  repulsed  and 
chased  av/ay  from  a  visage  so  hostile  to  its  charac- 
ter, by  a  withering  and  rigid  grin  which  admitted  not 
a  glimpse  of  relaxation. 

Still  this  resolution  extended  and  embraced  the 
first  and  easiest  division,  only,  of  what  he'  intended 
to  perform :  the  object  of  his  more  arduous  consider- 
ation remained  behind,  viz.:  the  adoption  of  means 
sure  and  effectual  for  the  execution  of  this  purpose. 
It  was  not  till  after  a  long-protracted  interval  that 
thus  the  Destroyer  counselled  with  himself. 

'*  I  have  held  a  long  and  vast  communion  with  the 
sons  of  men  who  walk  this  earth,  and  all  who  have 
disappeared  from  it  were  removed  by  me.  This  is 
not  all :  known  it  is  to  me,  by  ages  of  experience  and 
the  use  of  observation,  that  the  passion  of  fear  is 
among  the  strongest  felt  by  mortals,  and  that  of  no- 
thing are  they  so  horribly  afraid  as  of  my  threaten- 
ings  and  my  power  to  enforce  them.  How  is  this  ? 
that  the  man  who  has  courage  to  contemn  and  to  op- 
pose the  requisitions  of  justice ;  to  admit  and  to  en- 
courage the  foulest  ofiences  against  the  charities  of 

y2 


326  death's  doings. 

humanity  and  the  consciousness  of  moral  obligation  ; 
to  cherish  the  corruption  of,  and  to  perpetrate  the 
blackest  crimes  against,  the  fellowship  of  men!  that 
the  same  identical  man  of  flesh  and  blood,  on  whom 
the  fear  of  me  is  so  deeply  impressed,  should  ever 
fail  to  tremble  while  thinking  upon  the  crimes,  the 
outrages,  the  murders  he  may  have  committed  ?  All 
this  must  be  left  to  the  discussion  of  wiser  skulls 
than  mine. 

*'  By  my  life,"  said  Death,  *'  it  is  most  worthy  of 
marvel  and  recordance,  that  one  and  the  same  man 
shall  dare  to  commit  and  brave  the  most  atrocious 
wickedness,  no  less  in  the  face  of  all  the  world  than 
in  the  secret  chambers,  and  yet  shake  with  horror 
at  an  accidental  change  of  feeling  in  his  mortal 
frame,  not  occasioned  by  any  guilty  deed  that  he 
hath  done,  but  resulting  inevitably  from  the  estab- 
lished laws  and  conditions  of  that  animal  economy, 
ordained  to  experience  the  enjoyments  of  health  and 
the  inflictions  of  disease  ;  to  live,  and  think,  and  act, 
while  the  movements  of  the  nice  and  wonderful  ma- 
chine are  in  perfect  harmony  and  correctness ;  to 
languish,  and  finally  to  decay,  when  these  are  inter- 
rupted and  gradually  stopped. 


THE  MEN  OF  PHYSIC.  327 

"  Yes,  the  solution  of  a  mystery  like  this  must  be 
submitted  to  the  philosophers  ;  enough  for  me,  that 
the  dread  of  my  approach  is  uppermost  amidst  mortal 
fears,  and  that  few  would  be  found,  who,  when  the 
hour  of  decision  should  arrive,  would  refuse  to 
compromise,  on  any  terms,  for  a  longer  beholding 
the  light  of  the  sun  and  of  all  the  natural  objects 
which  it  illumines  and  presents  :  yet  to  what  do 
these  amount,  in  comparison  with  the  animated  and 
social  nature,  with  the  world  of  kindred,  of  relatives, 
and  friends  ? 

**  Fortunate  for  my  commanding  thraldom,  man- 
kind are  not  conscious  that  the  '  fear  of  death,'  ab- 
stractedly considered,  '  is  most  in  apprehension ;'  or 
that,  *  imagination's  fool  and  error's  wretch,  man 
makes  a  death  which  nature  never  made,  then  on  the 
point  of  his  own  fancy  falls,  and  feels  a  thousand 
deaths  in  fearing  one.'  No,  no— the  Prince,  nursed 
and  wrapped  in  the  splendour  and  luxuries  of  a  gay 
and  rich  metropolis,  has  not  been  conversant  with 
disquisitions  of  this  sort;  if  he  ever  thinks  upon,  he 
also  shudders  at  the  contemplation  of  my  blow." 
Death  paused. — This  was  the  time  for  taking  up 
what  he  had  proposed  for  the  second  consideration 
of  his  subject,  viz. :    the  mode  to  be  adopted  for  se- 


328  death's  doings. 

curing  the  completion  of  his  plan.  It  required  not  a 
protracted  rumination.  Death  knew  the  certainty  of 
his  power,  and  he  resolved  on  its  early  application. 

It  was   amidst  the  lone   ''  and  witching  time  of 
night,  when  church-yards  yawn,"  that,  personified, 
"  lit  ejus  est  mos,"  in  the  attire  of  a  human  skeleton, 
he  made  his  way  to  the  palace  and  the  dormitory  of 
his  royal  enemy,  as  he  does  to  the  cot  and  pallet  of 
the  poor.      He  beheld  the  prince  stretched  in  the 
blandishments  and  the  wonted  security  of  sleep ;  in 
"  the  perfumed  chamber,"  "  beneath  the  canopy  of 
costly  state."     Directly  he  stalked  up;  the  hard  and 
bony  tread  awaked  the  sleeping  prince,  and  he  be- 
held the  horrid  figure  placed  before  him,  holding  a 
dimly-burning  taper  in  his  left  hand,  while  in  his 
right,  elevated  as  if  to  strike,  was  poised  the  shaft 
which  never  fails,  and  which  now  threatened  the  ex- 
ecution of  a  fatal  purpose. 

Confounded  by  the  spectacle,  he  made  an  effort  to 
spring  up ;  but  the  first  eff'ect  of  fear  is  debility :  he 
fell  backward,  yet  with  outstretched  arms  and 
clasped  hands,  shrinking  from  the  dreadful  object 
of  his  vision—"  I  come/'  said  the  horrible  appear- 
ance— fixing  upon   his    victim    the    dismal   cavities 


THE  MEN   OF  PHYSIC.  329 

where  eyes  had  been — *'  I  come,  armed  as  at  all 
times,  to  strike  and  to  destroy.  But  even  beneath 
the  shaft,  and  within  the  grasp  of  Death,  conditions 
of  mercy  may  exist.  Mark ! — I  come  unto  the 
despot,  who,  with  violence  and  injustice,  has  ex- 
pelled from  their  establishments  and  their  homes, 
the  men  of  physic,  my  ministers  and  agents,  and 
to  offer  him  one  or  the  other  of  two  things  :  will  he 
consent  to  recall  and  to  reinstate  the  said  men  of 
physic  or  leeches,  never  again  to  be  by  him  dis- 
turbed, or  forbidden  to  cultivate  and  to  use  their 
arts ;  or  will  he  prefer  that  this  uplifted  hand  dis- 
charge the  arrow  which  he  beholds,  thus  winged  for 
its  deadly  mission,  and  ready  to  fulfil  it?  Your  re- 
solve ! — speak  ! — answer,  even  now — ^or — "  The 
prince  observed  the  arm  rising  higher,  and  drawing  a 
little  backward  :  a  moment,  and  it  might  be  too  late ; 
in  agony  of  haste  he  called  out, — ''  Hold  !  spare  me, 
spare  me  !  I  will  execute  thy  commands  :  I  will  in- 
stantly recall  the  leeches ;  I  will  do  whatever  thou 
demandest :  I  will  do  it  now,  even  now."  Death 
lowered  his  arm,  and  proceeded : — *'  Promises,  at  a 
moment  like  this,  have  often  been  found  faithless, 
and  have  dissolved  *  into  thin  air ;'  therefore,"  giV" 
ing  to  the  prince  a  scroll — "  look  upon  that ;  unfold 
and  read :  be  instant — bind  thy  soul,  as  the  words 


:i30  death's  doings. 

therein  point  out,  to  the  prompt  execution  of  my 
pleasure."  Here  he  began  to  raise  his  hand  of 
bone,  still  armed  with  the  deadly  missile : — "  Hold  ! 
hold  !"  the  prince  ejaculated ;  "  I  swear  as  this 
scroll  requires."  What  was  written  therein  has 
never  been  divulged.  Death  well  knew  that  flesh 
and  blood  dared  not  to  violate  the  oath.  He  was  ac- 
cordingly satisfied ;  and  now,  under  the  guise  in 
which  he  had  stalked  into  the  royal  chamber,  he 
abandoned  it,  in  malignant  triumph  that  his  purpose 
had  succeeded,  and  that  the  recommencement  and 
augmentation  of  his  harvest  awaited  only  the  return 
of  the  doctors ;  more  especially  of  those  who  should 
occupy  their  stations  and  exercise  their  crafts  in  the 
METROPOLIS.  It  is  there  he  stands  in  gloomy 
w^atch,  or  stalks  about  in  cynic  grin,  delighted  with 
the  hurry,  dexterity,  and  sleight-of-hand  visits  paid 
by  the  doctor  to  his  catalogue  of  patients,  agreeably 
to  the  situations  of  their  residences  ;  many  of  whom, 
after  hours  of  languor,  distress,  and  pain,  are  now 
startled  into  being  from  their  pittance  of  merciful  un- 
consciousness, by  the  outrageous  but  fashionable 
violence,  the  storm  of  knocking  raised  at  the  door  of 
the  wretched  patient's  residence,  by  one  of  Death's 
subordinate  agents,  who  drops  from  the  fore  or  aft  of 
the  doctor's  chariot,  and  having  done  all  this  wanton 


THE  MEN  OF  PHYSIC.  331 

and  inhuman  mischief,  throws  open  the  door  for  the 
descent,  and  then  the  introduction  of  that  which  is 
to  follow.  Thus  it  is  manifest  that  Death  may  be 
detected  in  the  personification  of  an  outside  or  an  in- 
side passenger ;  on  the  box  or  in  the  chariot. 

The  question   may  be  asked, — what   place    does 
not  Death  occupy, — what  person  of  the  drama  can 
he  not  assume  and  fill?     We  have  seen  him  blinding 
the  eyes  of  physicians  and  their  patients,  and  con- 
verting medicines  into  poisons.     We  may  also  trace 
this  sly  and  rapacious  fellow  more  insidiously  intro- 
ducing poisons  into  the  wholesome  nutriment  of  life, 
into  our  viands    and  our  drinks.      For    the  former, 
gaze  upon  that  alarming  row  of  red  and  fiery-looking 
metal,  with  which  our  shelves,  whether  in  kitchen  or 
elsewhere,  are  so  frightfully  supplied !     The  metal 
is   copper,    poisonous    and    deadly,    as  many  wise 
housekeepers  and  cooks  are  at  length  beginning  to 
believe ;  but  which,  still,  in  defiance  of  the  sun,  or 
by  taking  advantage  of  the  tenderer  light  of  moon  or 
taper,  they  continue  to  use,  because  peculiarly  con- 
ducive, in  their  opinions,  to  the  good  colouring  and 
preservation  of  pickles  and  of  conserves.     For  the 
latter,  namely,  our  drinks,  behold  and  examine  the 
professed    malt  and   hop  decoctions  of  our  public 


3;i2  death's  doings. 

breweries — malt  and  hops  !  pshaw  ! — vinegar  and 
bullock's  blood.  Once  more,  look,  and  look  closely 
when  you  are  about  it,  to  your  cider  and  perry  mills, 
lest  you  should  purchase  your  liogshead  of  either  of 
these  liquors  from  a  mill,  in  the  construction  of 
which  the  metal  of  lead,  another  of  Death's  minis- 
ters, has  been  largely  employed,  and  which,  when 
acted  upon  by  the  juices  of  the  fruits,  communicates 
to  the  liquor  a  poisonous  quality.  The  effects  of 
this  carelessness,  or  obstinacy,  have  been  long  and 
seriously  felt  in  cider  counties  ;  in  the  county  of  De- 
vonshire more  particularly,  producing  therein  that 
painful  disease,  known  by  the  appropriate  term, 
Devonshire  Colic,  terminating  in  Palsy.  But  the 
time  would  fail,  were  we  to  attempt  to  show  this 
Man  of  Bones  in  all  his  asserted  places  of  domina- 
tion, or  to  bolt  him  from  his  secret  lurking-holes. 
We  will  leave  him,  for  the  time  being,  in  his  awful 
and  favourite  retreat,  an  English  wine-vault,  the  de- 
pot oi  foreign  wines*  There  he  sits,  enthroned  upon 

*  We  sincerely  hope  this  sentence  cannot  be  construed  into  a  libel, 
though,  after  what  has  lately  taken  place,  we  confess  we  have  some 
qualms  about  it ;  but  this  we  can  conscientiously  aver,  that  however 
well  it  may  be  thought  to  apply  to  some  of  these  "  dep6ts  of  foreign 
wines,"  our  esteemed  contributor  had  no  "  wine-merchant"  in  particu- 
lar in  his  eye,  when  he  wrote  tlie  article.  This  apologetic  explanation 
will  therefore,  we  trust,  shield  us  from  any  action  for  damages  ! — Ed, 


THE  MEN  OF   PHYSIC.  333 

a  cask  of  fiery  sherry,  which,  among  other  pernicious 
combinations,  he  dispenses  far  and  wide,  adminis- 
tering all  of  them  more  or  less  largely  as  his  caprice 
may  choose  to  delight  itself  in  a  larger  or  scantier 
accumulation  of  victims. 

We  will'  proceed  no  further  in  the  pursuit  of  a 
topic  and  a  theme  which  would  remain  interminable ; 
neither  would  it  prove  fair  nor  charitable  to  cast  the 
Bony  Man  in  no  other  character  than  that  which,  to 
the  bulk  of  mankind,  represents  him  most  unwel- 
come, cruel,  and  severe.  By  certain  of  the  sons  of 
men  he  has  been  received  not  only  with  resignation 
and  composure,  but  his  approach  has  been  hailed  as 
a  boon  and  a  deliverance.  Besides,  he  possesses 
such  traits,  or  perhaps  faculties,  in  his  composition, 
as  might  challenge  our  approbation  and  our  re- 
verence. In  the  class  of  these  we  desire  to  rescue 
from  oblivion  his  acknowledged  impartiality;  his 
frequent  prevention  of  greater  evil  than  he  brings ; 
his  endurance  of  perpetual  labour;  his  just  claim  to 
universality ;  his  courage ;  snatching  away  the  mo- 
narch, surrounded  by  his  life  guards,  just  as  a  Ben- 
gal tiger  springs  into  a  little  company  of  men  seated 
at  their  social  meal  upon  the  turf,  and,  seizing  on 
his  victim,  drags  him  to  the  jungle. 


334  death's  doings. 

We  must  recount,  because  it  evinces  an  honour- 
able and  lofty  sentiment,  that,  as  he  stalked  away 
after  his  midnight  visit  to  the  prince  whom  he  had 
terrified  into  an  instant  and  shaking  submission,  a 
voice  was  heard  through  the  palace,  and  by  the  sen- 
tinels, as,  invisibly,  he  moved  along : — "  Coward 
and  slave,  who  hast  consented  to  sell  thy  people's 
pleasant  health,  the  term  of  their  life,  with  all  its 
consolations  and  enjoyments  ;  their  title,  it  might 
have  been,  to  longevity  ; — that  thou  thyself  mights t 
be  suffered  to  crawl,  in  infamy  and  abhorrence,  a 
little  longer  between  heaven  and  earth  ! ! ! — It  well 
nigh  grieves  me  that  I  permitted  the  wretch  to  out- 
live his  meanness  and  his  baseness. 

"  But  wherefore — I  desire  to  ask  and  to  be  an- 
swered— wherefore  are  the  sons  of  men  so  hostile  to 
my  charter,  and  so  fearful  of  its  exercise  ? — A  char- 
ter, too,  of  which  I  myself  foresee  and  dread  the  ex- 
piration?" 

Can  none  develop  and  explain  this  mystery  ? 


THE    MISE]R,- 


335 


THE  LOST  TREASURE. 


Idol  of  all,  the  world's  imperial  lord. 
Thou  peerless  bullion  dug  from  sleeping  earth, 
As  sways  the  despot  o'er  his  fettered  horde. 
So  thousands  bow  the  minions  of  thy  worth : — 
To  groans  and  midnight  tears  thou  givest  birth. 
Enchanting  master  of  the  frown  and  smile  ; — 
Alike  creator  of  our  woes  and  mirth. 
The  nurse  of  cloudy  hate,  and  venomed  guile. 
Diffusing  mantling  grandeur  on  the  tumid  vile  ! 

Thou  yellow  slave  of  Eastern  rifled  mine. 

There  gleams  from  thee  a  long  unweakened  charm ; 

A  fatal  essence  is  for  ever  thine 

That  time's  corroding  changes  cannot  harm ; 

The  same  magnetic  spell  in  every  form — 

A  dumb  memorial  of  the  ages  fled. 

When,  love  for  thee,  woke  up  the  civic  storm ; — 

For  thee,  the  pulsing  breast  was  gored  and  red. 

And  savage  warriors  trampled  on  the  piling  dead  : 


336  death's  doings. 

There  is  a  moral  on  thy  graven  face. 

When,  damp  before  us,  from  thy  burial-ground. 

With  eager  ken,  we  scan  the  fading  trace 

Of  some  triumphant  record,  crusted  round ; 

Or  regal  brow,  with  braiding  garland  bound. 

Where  now  is  he,  the  image  of  thy  rust  ? 

The  tyrant,  perhaps,  that  made  the  war-whoop  sound. 

And  vanquished  cities  rear  his  sculptured  bust 

Like  thee,  disfigured  remnant  of  his  wormy  dust ! 

In  burning  zones,  and  far  exotic  clime. 
Where  gorgeous  nature  daunts  the  lifted  eye,-^ 
The  daring  Briton  wastes  his  lusty  prime. 
Apart  from  native  hills,  and  genial  sky  : 
The  dripping  tears  of  love— th'  unbosomed  sigh. 
The  farewell  pang  prophetic — all  forgot ! 
When,  flushed,  his  pluming  spirit  longs  to  fly 
From  thrifty  ease  and  patrimonial  spot — 
And  slow  return  with  wealth  and  fevered  veins  his 
lot! 

With  sinking  cheek,  pale  lip,  and  pensive  glance, 
And  locks  that  pine  upon  their  heated  brow. 
Alone,  with  pauseful  step,  and  mute  advance, 
Behold  a  martyred  genius  passing  now ! 


THE  LOST  TREASURE.  337 

His  eyes  still  flash, — but  mournful  shadows  throw 
Betraying  sadness  round  his  inward  gloom  :  — 
The  soul  is  lit,  inspired, — but  poor,  and  low, 
No  gold  creative  to  resist  his  doom. 
Like  sunshine's  fading  light,  he  weakens  to  the  tomb. 

On  clotted  turf,  within  a  murky  vale, 
The  blood-red  dagger  in  his  quaking  hand. 
His  guilty  visage  hued  by  moonlight  pale, — 
The  murderer  bodes — as  if  Remorse's  wand 
Had  fixed  him  there.     Upon  the  still  brigand. 
The  victim  opes  his  eyes — which  then  reclose. 
While  from  his  wounds  the  bubbling  streams  expand : 
For  gold,  thus,  oft  the  wasted  life-spring  flows — 
For  thee,  vile  ore,  how  many  woo  the  grave's  repose  ! 

A  long  farewell  endears  the  faithful  soul. 
And  warmer  kindness  will  spring  up  from  woe, — 
But  spelling  gold  perverts  the  heart's  control. 
And  finds  a  parent  for  the  infant's  foe  ! 
Malignant  guile,  the  darksome  traitor's  blow. 
The  death-bed  curse,  and  lip  of  venomed  scorn, — 
The  sternest  pangs  enduring  hearts  can  know. 
Are  but  the  deeds  of  gold : — and  years  unborn. 
Shall  bring  thine  endless  victims,  that  for  thee  shall 
mourn. 


338  death's  doings. 

But  see !  thy  abject  slave :— a  lurking  fear. 
Spreads  o'er  his  face  a  dark  prevailing  shade  ; 
Wakeful,  though  scowled  his  gaze  : — that  icy  sneer. 
Before  whose  chill  a  baby  smile  would  fade, — 
Is  th'  intense  pride  of  treasure  unbetrayed : 
Few  are  his  words — in  them  the  wily  tone 
Conveys  reserveful  dread  ; — as  if  it  bade 
The  miser  fear  himself: — his  wealth  once  known, 
'Twould  seem  departed,  though  it  still  remained  his 
own  ! 

A  miser's  heart  is  like  the  damp  cold  tomb, 
Embalming  but  the  noisome ; — dark  abode 
Of  blighted  feeling  and  of  selfish  gloom  : — 
And  yet  'tis  not  repose ;  a  burdening  load 
Of  teasing  dreams,  at  home,  and  on  the  road. 
From  risen  morn  till  eve — prevent  his  rest : 
One  haunting  thought,  the  self-inflicted  goad — 
Is  ever  at  his  soul.     With  heavy  breast 
And  pulsing  terror,  is  his  canvass  pillow  pressed  ! 

This  beauteous  world,  and  its  enchanting  scene. 
The  silken  clouds  of  morn,  and  moony  night. 
The  tinted  fruits,  and  meadow's  matchless  green, — 
Its  flowers  and  streams — for  him  yield  no  delight ! — 
The  sunbeams  warm  his  brow,  and  bless  his  sight. 


THE  LOST  TREASURE.  33ft 

The  breezes  kiss  his  lips — but  he's  the  same  :— 
As  if  his  mind  was  darkened  o'er  with  blight. 
And  Nature  quite  unfelt — a  gloomy  frame 
Where  all,  but  avarice,  is  motionless  and  tame. 

And  has  he  bliss  ? — 'tis  buried  in  the  ground  ! 
No  kindly  ease  is  bought  above :  vile,  mean, 
Blank  to  the  eye,  and  deaf  to  sorrow's  sound. 
With  unpartaking  modes  and  bilious  spleen. 
He  crawls  his  way — unsought  and  seldom  seen: — 
Strange  homage  this,  that  Fancy  gets 
For  her  delusions  !    E'er  since  time  hath  been. 
Hearts  weave  their  own  deceits  : — the  miser  frets. 
But  bears  the  willing  thraldom  while  his  soul  re- 
grets ! 

With  lowering  front,  and  dim  withdrawing  eye. 
Suspiciously  he  creeps  : — his  morbid  glance 
Turned  round  on  heaven  and  earth  most  fretfully  ; — 
Disturbing  fears,  as  near  his  steps  advance 
To  see  the  buried  gold — and  hopeful  trance, — 
Attend  him  with  their  phantoms. — Each  limb  shakes. 
And  tremulous,  the  chills  of  dubious  chance 
Thrill  through  his  person : — till  again  he  takes 
Another  glutting  stare,— oh !  how  his  bosom  aches  ! 

z 


340  death's  doings. 

The  spot  is  gained : — beneath  a  tree  decayed 
His  treasure's  hid.     Upon  its  topmost  bough 
A  raven  sits — foreboding  hope  betrayed. 
Here,  on  the  ground,  the  miser  kneeling  now. 
Digs  up  the  turf :— but  list!  the  shrieking  vow 
And  arms  infuriate  raised — the  torture's  trace — 
Proclaim  the  heap  is  gone  ! — no  tears  can  flow. 
But  inward  anguish  maddens  in  grimace. 
While  Heath,  with  mocking  purse,  grins  in  his  mar- 
tyr's face. 

R.  M. 


TME   PHAETON. 


341 


DEATH 


THE  GAY  CHARIOTEER. 


The  sun,  in  splendour,  was  setting  bright. 
And  the  west  was  sheeted  in  ruby  light. 
The  hymn  of  the  woodland  choir  was  singing, 
And  the  winds  o'er  the  forest  their  incense  flinging, 
The  grove  its  leaves  of  gold  was  waving, 
The  mountain  its  summit  in  glory  bathing. 
The  flowers  for  day's  departure  weeping, 
'  And  the  wolf  in  his  cave  yet  soundly  sleeping, 
When  young  Cytheron,  e'en  as  Hylas  fair. 
With  cheek  of  the  damask  rose,  and  hair 
In  darkly  beauteous  ringlets  flowing, 
And  lip  like  the  piony  richly  glowing. 
With  a  smile  like  summer's  morn,  and  eye 
That  no  maiden  could  look  on  without  a  sigh. 
Met  Comus,  as  on  he  journeyed,  gay 
And  thoughtless,  life's  primrose-scattered  way. 
Comus  invited  the  youth  to  spend  the  night 
At  his  magic  palace  of  pomp  and  delight, 

z2 


342  death's  doings. 

To  rest  himself  after  the  toils  of  the  day. 
And  chase  the  tardy-footed  hours  away 
With  banquet  and  song-,  and  care-killing  glee. 
Music,  and  wine,  and  jollity. 

Young  Cytheron,  regardless  of  what  might  betide. 
Turned  joyous  to  follow  his  laughing  guide. 
Who  led  him  on  through  a  solemn  wood. 
Where  tall  colonnades  of  cedar  stood. 
And  verdant  palms  in  long  array. 
That  shone  with  the  tints  of  departing  day  ; 
While  the  dew-brightened  flowers  caught  the  sun's 
last  smile. 

And  rivalled  the  pomp  of  the  evening  sky, 
Where  a  pageant  of  mountain,  lake,  and  isle. 

In  glory  unearthly  met  the  eye  ! 

Amid  the  forest,  sweetly  embowered. 

Were  seats  of  green  moss,  with  roses  showered. 

And  each  fragrant  hyacinthine  bed 

Was  o'er-canopied  with  the  rich  web 

Of  tissued  blossoms,  in  nature's  loom 

Wove  gorgeous,  and  bright  with  radiant  bloom. 

The  gleams  of  an  alabastrian  pile. 
With  pillared  form  of  classic  style. 


DEATH  AND  THE  GAY  CHARIOTEER.     343 

Shone  down  the  opening  vista  far. 
Like  the  softened  light  of  Neptune's  star  ; 
When  the  midnight  winds  part  the  fleecy  cloud. 
And  she  walks  forth  in  her  beauty  and  splendour 
proud. 

It  was  the  bright  magic  palace  reared 

By  Pleasure,  to  ensnare  the  idle  and  vain, — 

A  temple  it  seemed  with  glory  ensphered, 
But  Death  dwelt  there  in  her  fatal  train ! 

Young  Cytheron  before  the  portal  stood, — 

Then  entered  with  enraptured  eye. 
When  round  him  poured  a  rainbow  flood 

Of  dazzling  light,  while  harmony 
Angelic  came  on  his  ravished  ears. 
Rich-toned  as  the  music  of  the  spheres  ! 
The  palace  court  with  pillars  was  hemmed 
Of  flaming  carbuncle,  and  gemmed 
The  tesselated  floor,  save  where 

Bloomed  bowers  of  myrtle,  and  orange,  and  lime. 
Pomegranates,  and  aloes,  that  gave  to  the  air 

The  exquisite  odours  of  Araby's  clime. 
These  bowers,  rich  with  the  rose  of  Cashmere, 

Of  a  thousand  birds  were  the  blessed  haunt. 


;344  death's  doings. 

Whose  plumes  did  like  clustered  gems  appear 
As  they  warbled  their  wild  melodious  chant. 

Now  forth  from  the  inner  palace  came, 

Whose  walls  outshone  the  sapphire  flame, — 

A  lady,  who  leant  on  a  damsel  fair. 

That  for  beauty  might  e'en  with  Calypso  compare  ! 

Intemperance  was  the  portly  dame. 

And  Wantonness  the  damsel's  name. 

Whose  eye  shot  forth  such  thrilling  fires 

As  fiU'd  young  Cytheron  with  fond  desires  ; 

Her  form  is  voluptuous,  her  cheek  outglows 

The  blush  of  young  Venus  as  from  the  deep  she  first 

rose. 
They  welcomed  glad  Cytheron,  and  smiling  led 
To  an  arbour  with  roses  fresh-blooming  spread. 
Acanthus,  and  myrtle,  and  luscious  woodbine. 
And  o'erhung  with  the  fruit-empurpled  vine. 

There  on  couches  of  emerald  and  Tyrian  dye, 

In  pomp  and  luxurious  ease  they  lie. 

While  the  lady  Intemperance  in  her  cup  of  gold 

Pressed  the  musky  clusters  that  o'er  them  hung, 

And  gave  to  her  guest  *  * 

The  magic  draught  made  him  proud  and  bold. 


DEATH  AND  THE  GAY  CHARIOTEER.     345 

And  joyous, — then  soft  airs  were  sung, 

By  attendant  virgins  fair  and  young  ; 

And  the  fountains  their  rainbow  streams  out-flung, 

And  music  breathed  from  harp  and  lute. 

From  sacbut,  theorbo,  and  flute  ; 

While  youths  and  maidens,  bright  as  the  Hours, 

Danced  along  the  green  arcade  of  bowers 

That,  torch-lit,  showed  like  Eden's  shades 

When  angel  shapes  thronged  its  moonlight  glades. 

Again  the  chalice  of  gold  the  youth  drains. 
Which  flowed  like  fire  through  his  glowing  veins ! 
Then  dallies  with  the  damsel  on  beds  of  roses. 
Till  wearied  with  sport  in  her  arms  he  reposes. 
Whence  summoned  by  music  to  the  banquet-hall. 
He  feasts  high  on  his  lordly  stall. 
O  what  a  proud  display  was  there. 
Of  thronging  chivalry  and  ladies  fair ! 
Of  richest  viands,  wines,  fruits,  and  flowers. 
That  deck  young  Summer  or  Autumn's  bowers. 

Amid  that  gorgeous  hall  of  might, 
Where  the  columns,  formed  of  jewels  rare. 

Seemed  each  a  shaft  of  sunny  light ! 
But  what  grim  unbidden  guest  sits  there. 
With  eyeless  sockets  and  ribs  all  bare. 


346  death's  doings. 

And  grinning  so  hideously  upon 

The  laughter-loving  Cytheron  ? 

'Tis  Death !  who  marks  him  for  his  prey, 

Long  ere  the  close  of  another  day  ! 

'Tis  dawn, — come,  rouse  thee,  who  didst  rejoice 

And  sport  with  the  young  loves  and  pleasures. 
The  harp  and  the  viol  have  ceased  their  voice. 

And  the  lute  its  soft  preluding  measures  ; 
Arise  with  the  lark  and  the  dappled  fawn, 
And  brush  the  dews  from  the  cowslip  lawn ; 
Mount  the  proud  seat  of  thy  glittering  car. 
Which  in  silvery  splendour  beams  afar ; 
Pleasure  hath  harnessed  thy  horses,  all  eager  to  run. 
Fiery  and  swift  as  the  steeds  of  the  sun ! 
"  Ah,  this  is  life,  happiness,  splendour,  and  glee  ; 
Mount,  mounts  my  sweet  damsel,   and  journey  with 

me." 
But,  ah  !  that  grim  king,  who  sat  at  the  feast. 

Hath  followed  the  track  of  thy  chariot  wheel ; 
He  heeds  not  the  cry  of  anguish  for  rest. 

Nor  the  sorrows  that  time  will  never  heal. 
Nor  the  captive's  sigh  for  sweet  release. 
Nor  the  exile's  prayer  for  the  dark  grave's  peace  ; 

No, — he  follows  thee,  thou  gay  and  vain. 
And  all  thy  schemes  of  pride  will  mar, 


DEATH  AND  THE  GAY  CHARIOTEER.     347 

He  takes  the  wheel  from  thy  splendid  car 

And  hurls  thee  prostrate  on  the  plain ! 
Nature  heeds  not  thy  parting  groan 
No  more  than  thou  didst  the  beggar's  moan  ; 
The  skylark  amid  the  full  sun-blaze  is  singing, 
While    down    the    lone    valley  thy  death-shriek    is 
ringing ! 

Ah  !  what  are  worldly  pomp  and  glory  ? 
An  empty  shadow,  a  noisy  story  ! 
While  earthly  pleasure  is  a  fleeting  dream. 
And  honour  but  the  meteor's  gleam  ! 

J.  F.  P. 


348 


THE    FOREBODING; 

A  SKETCH. 


"  Loathed  Melancholy." — Milton. 


"  If  you  please.  Sir  Henry,  the  curricle  is  quite 
ready," 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  master  to  his  servant ; 
"  bring  me  my  boots,  and  desire  her  maid  to  ac- 
quaint your  mistress  that  the  carriage  is  waiting." 

The  footman  left  the  library,  and  Sir  Henry  Buck- 
ingham, going  to  the  window  which  commanded  a 
view  of  his  noble  park,  exclaimed  to  himself,  "  This 
will  be  a  glorious  day  for  our  drive  !  the  sun  will  be 
tempered  by  those  troops  of  soft  clouds  which  are 
sailing  about  so  quietly,  throwing  their  grave  sha- 
dows on  the  earth — the  air  is  mild — last  night's  rain 
has  filled  the  herbage  with  fragrance ;  and  the  trees 
seem  to  rest,  after  the  refreshing  shower,  in  motion- 
less and  satisfied  repose.     All  is  as  I  could  wish  it 


THE  FOREBODING.  349 

to  be,  foj  jDy  dear  wife's  sake,  to  whose  spirits  the 
airing  will  certainly  be  beneficial.  This  open,  smil- 
ing, gentle  scene,  upon  which  I  cannot  look  and  de- 
spair, must  assuredly  infuse  something  of  its  healthi- 
ness into  her  mind. 

Here  he  paused  in  his  soliloquy ;  but  whether  to 
brood  on  the  comfort  of  the  thought,  or  to  examine  its 
validity,  was  not  at  first  apparent.  It  was  soon, 
however,  evident,  that  the  feeling  was  one  of  mis- 
giving, for  his  meditations  again  finding  words,  he 
said: 

"  Yet  why  do  I  flatter  myself  thus?  The  influence 
of  spring  could  not  save  her  from  the  attack  of  the 
mind-sickness  which  weighs  her  down,  neither  will 
the  laughing  summer  drive  it  away.  My  unhappiness, 
I  fear,  is  irremediable !  What  avail  my  many 
worldly  advantages,— fortune,  youth,  health,  the 
possession  of  her  whom  I  so  long  have  loved  ? 
Darkness  is  thrown  over  all  by  one  misfortune, 
which  is  the  more  miserable,  because,  being  cause- 
less, I  know  not  what  to  do  to  insure  a  remedy." 

Here  a  female  servant  entered  the  library  with  a 
request  that  Sir  Henry  would  step  into  his  lady's 


350  death's  doings. 

room,  which,  with  a  sigh  laden  with  wretched  antici- 
pation, he  obeyed. 

Lady  Buckingham  was  a  confirmed  ennnyee.  The 
two  first  years  of  her  marriage  passed  happily  and 
even  joyously ;  but  the  last  twelve  months  had  been 
characterized  by  great  and  mysterious  depression, — 
a  constant  but  undefined  fear  of  some  impending  ca- 
lamity, which  shook  her  innocent  heart  to  its  very 
centre.  Every  change  alarmed  her.  The  seasons, 
in  their  diversity,  approached  like  portents  ;  and 
the  coming-on  of  dawn,  no  less  than  the  deepening 
shadows  of  evening,  filled  her  with  intolerable  tre- 
mour.  During  the  noon,  either  of  night  or  day,  she 
seemed  to  enjoy  some  little  respite  from  her  ap- 
prehensions, for  then  the  hours  appeared  to  pause  ; 
but  she  could  not  divest  herself  of  the  dread  that 
every  obvious  change  was  only  the  prologue  of  an 
unutterable  tragedy.  In  vain  her  affectionate  hus- 
band tried  to  reason  her  out  of  these  fears — in  vain 
he  expatiated  on  the  simplicity  of  her  character,  on 
the  whiteness  of  her  conscience,  and  on  her  duty  to 
be  thankful  to  her  Creator  for  the  worldly  blessings 
he  had  been  pleased  to  bestow  on  her.  She  ac- 
knowledged the  reasonableness  of  all  this,  and  then, 
after  a  struggle,  sank  again  into  her  dejection,  as 


THE   FOREBODING.  351 

though  some  invisible  demon  were  practising  upon 
her  his  numbing  spells ! 

Her   very  beauty  was   tainted  with    this   melan- 
choly ;    but  still  she  was  a  lovely  creature, — pale, 
indeed,  and  too  thin  for  the  perfection  of  feminine 
grace,  though  from  the  outline  of  her  figure  it  was 
evident  that  nature  had  intended  to  fashion  her  shape 
in  the  full  luxury  of  womanhood.      Her  voice  was 
sweet  beyond  expression ;    and  formerly  her  words 
were  simple,  gentle,   timid,  and  even  girlish  ;    and 
from  the  charm  of  their  innocent  spell  it  was  not 
possible  to  escape.      Alas !    this  part  of  her  cha- 
racter was  now  fearfully  altered  by  the  over-inform- 
ing tyranny  of  her  distemper,  which  had,  as  it  were 
against  her  will,  lifted  her  mental  faculties  out  of 
their  simplicity,  perplexed  them  with  '^thick-coming 
fancies,"  and,  by  a  painful  process,  filled  them  with 
premature  knowledge  and  the  command  of  lofty  elo- 
quence !     Her  eyes  were  ever  restless,  glancing  hi- 
ther and   thither  with  eager  scrutiny ;  but  in  other 
respects  she  was  lethargic. 

Sir  Henry,  on  entering  her  room,  found  that  his 
wife  had  not  yet  risen,  and  that  she  had  been  weep- 
ing.    "  Why,  my  dear,"  said  he,  ''  I  expected  you 


352  death's  doings. 

would  have  been  ready  to  accompany  me  in  the 
little  airing  we  spoke  of  last  night,  and  now  I  find 
you  dejected  and  in  tears.  For  heaven's  sake, 
arouse  yourself  in  time  from  this  melancholy,  or  it 
will  gather  strength  in  proportion  as  you  yield  to  it, 
until  at  last  you  will  be  its  abject  slave. 

"  I  am  that  already,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  am  the 
victim  of  a  throng  of  hideous  fears,  which  scare 
away  my  wits .  I  do  not  dare  to  leave  my  bed ;  and 
(jeer  me  as  you  may)  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am 
warned,  by  my  evil  genius, — nay,  smile  not,  for  the 
fiend  of  destiny  haunts  me — that  my  death,  and 
your's  too,  will  be  the  consequence  of  my  accompa- 
nying you  this  morning." 

''  Nothing,  my  dear,"  replied  Sir  Henry,  "  can  be 
more  unreal  (I  should  say,  ridiculous,  did  I  not 
respect  even  your  weakness)  than  these  fears.  They 
are  the  offspring  of  ill  health,  to  which  you  reduce 
yourself  by  persisting  in  so  sedentary  a  life.  You 
must  not  be  offended,  if,  for  once,  I  employ  the  au- 
thority of  a  husband,  and  require  that  you  forthwith 
prepare  yourself  for  exercise  and  fresh  air.  Come, 
let  me  woo  thee  in  the  words  of  the  oriental  song : 
*  Rise  up,  my  love,  my  fair  one,  and  come  away. 


THE   FOREBODING.  353 

For,  lo!  the  winter  is  past,  the  rain  is  over  and 
gone ;  the  flowers  appear  on  the  earth ;  the  time  of 
the  singing  of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  tur- 
tle-dove is  heard  in  our  land.'" 

The  heartfelt  kindness  of  this  solicitation  was  not 
lost  on  the  lady,  who,  after  a  struggle  with  her  ap- 
prehensions, arose,  and  dressed  herself  for  the  morn- 
ing ride,  and  joined  her  husband  in  the  library. 

That  the  exercise  might  be  more  efficacious.  Sir 
Henry  extended  the  drive  farther  than  he  had  at 
first  contemplated,  and,  when  about  ten  miles  from 
home,  called  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  with  whom  he 
and  his  lady  were  prevailed  on  to  partake  of  an  early 
dinner.  The  jaunt  and  the  cheerful  society  seemed 
to  have  a  beneficial  influence  on  the  spirits  of  the 
hypochondriac. 

They  returned  in  the  evening.  Twilight  was 
coming  on,  and,  as  it  deepened,  gigantic  clouds 
were  observed  lifting  themselves  uncouthly  above 
the  horizon,  and  congregating  in  sullen  masses. 
This  was  succeeded  by  weak  flashes  of  lightning, 
accompanied  by  heavy  sultriness,  and  an  unnatural 
quiet.    The  leaves  of  the  trees,  which  had  rustled 


354  death's  doings. 

pleasantly  during  the  day,  were  now  still ;  the  shal- 
low brooks,  which  had  made  music  with  their  fresh 
rippling,  seemed  now  like  stagnant  pools ;  the  cat- 
tle  crouched  together   and   became  mute.      Mean- 
while the  lightning  grew  stronger,  though  still  not 
blue  or  forked,  or  attended  by  thunder.     Darkness 
at  length  ensued ;  and,  of  a  sudden,  there  came  a 
blast  of  air  like  a  mighty  whirlwind,  which  tore  the 
branches  from  the  heavier  trees,  and  bent  the  light 
ones  till  their  tops  swept  the  ground,  even  as  though 
they  were  bowing  in  worship  of  the  Angel   of  the 
Storm!     The  whole  earth  appeared  to  stagger;  when 
a  terrific  dart  of  lightning  ran,  like  a  huge  serpent, 
down  the  sky,  making  rifts  in  the  dense  clouds,  and 
affording   awful  revelations  of  the  interior  heaven. 
This   was  instantly  succeeded  by  a   stunning   and 
continued  peal  of  thunder,  and  a  descent  of  rain, 
like   the  beginning  of  another  deluge.     The  light- 
ningnow  was  incessant ;  sometimes  appearing  to  dash 
broad  floods  of  light  with  force  upon  the  ground, 
and  at  others  to  throw  a  blue  and  ghastly  illumina- 
tion against  the  several  masses  of  the  clouds,  which 
had  assumed  the  grand  forms  of  mountains  and  pyra- 
mids and  colossal  temples ! 

What  a  frightful  hour  must  this  have  been  for  our 


THE   FOREBODING.  355 

poor  afflicted  lady  !  It  shook  even  the  strong  nerves 
of  her  husband;  whose  agitation  was  increased, 
when,  on  looking  round  at  his  wife,  he  perceived  she 
had  fainted.  O!  how  he  blamed  his  pertinacity  in 
urging  her  to  take  the  excursion.  There  was,  how- 
ever, no  time  for  reflection  :  his  presence  of  mind 
and  skill  were  required  in  the  management  of  his 
horses ;  for  death  seemed  inevitable,  should  they,  by 
becoming  wild,  get  beyond  his  control.  He,  there- 
fore, merely  drew  his  lady's  cloak  nearer  about  her, 
and  concentrated  his  attention  on  the  reins,  which  he 
held  with  a  strong  and  wary  hand,  and  thus  driving 
through  the  terrors  of  the  night,  he  at  length  reached 
his  own  gates  in  safety. 

The  lady  was  restored  sooner  than  the  fears  of  Sir 
Henry  allowed  him  to  expect.  She  passed  a  calm 
night  of  refreshing  sleep,  and  in  the  morning,  which 
was  fine  and  bright,  talked  over,  with  cheerfulness, 
the  danger  of  the  preceding  evening.  This  unlooked- 
for  amendment  of  her  spirits  continued  for  some 
time,  and  gave  her  husband  reason  to  indulge  in  con- 
fident hopes  of  her  settled  recovery.  Her  former 
distemper  furnished  a  theme  even  for  raillery,  dur- 
ing which  she  not  only  manifested  no  signs  of  impa- 

2a 


356  death's  doings. 

tience,  but  even  joined  in  the  pleasantry,  and  won- 
dered at  her  own  delusion. 

Alas!  this  was  not  of  long  duration.  A  relapse 
came  on  ;  and  one  morning  at  breakfast,  after  a  long 
silence,  she  suddenly  burst  out  as  follows  : 

"  O !  my  husband,  I  have  had  a  ghastly  dream, 
which  weighs  upon  me  like  the  announcement  of 
fate,  and  will  not  be  shaken  otF.  That  fearful  ride ! 
The  memory  of  it  has  haunted  me  all  night.  Some 
of  its  terrors,  indeed,  were  diminished  ;  but  then, 
others  more  fatal,  more  tremendous,  more  madden- 
ing were  substituted.  Methought  we  were,  as  then, 
in  that  open  carriage — it  was  broad  day,  clear, 
cloudless,  and  with  a  deep  blue  sky.  Every  thing 
seemed  happy,  and  you  and  I  enjoyed  to  the  full  the 
blessed  tranquillity.  As  I  looked  about  me,  how- 
ever, I  became  gradually  aware  of  a  minute  stain  in 
the  lower  atmosphere,  like  a  blot,  which  moved  near 
and  around  us,  now  here,  now  there,  in  a  strange 
manner.  I  endeavoured  once  or  twice  to  push  it 
aside  ;  but  at  this,  it  only  seemed  to  hang  closer  to 
my  eyes.  I  was  about  to  call  your  attention  to  it, 
when,  of  a  sudden,  it  swelled  into  size  and  shape. 


THE   FOREBODING.  357 

and  I  beheld,  flying  at  my  side,  a  bony  spectre, — 
the  king  of  terrors— Death  !  The  horses  had  an  in- 
stinctive recognition  of  the  phantom,  for  they 
moaned  dismally,  their  nostrils  were  dilated,  the 
whole  of  their  frame  was  seized  with  convulsive 
shudderings,  and  they  struggled  as  though  to  escape 
from  the  trammels  of  the  harness.  I  was  distracted 
with  terror,  when  the  gaunt  and  execrable  monster, 
touching  me,  whispered  in  my  ear,  '  Thou  art  mine 
— this  night  shalt  thou  sleep  in  my  everlasting  cave !' 
As  it  said  this,  the  hateful  thing  shifted  its  position, 
and  when  I  turned  round  I  saw  it  had  crouched 
under  one  of  the  wheels,  which  it  lifted  up,  and 
threw  the  carriage  over  the  brink  of  a  deep  preci- 
pice. I  shrieked  aloud,  and,  as  I  fell,  the  demon, 
with  a  laugh  of  exultation,  caught  me  in  his  arms, 
and  bore  me  into  the  darkness  of  the  chasm." 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself  so,  my  dear,"  said  Sir 
Henry ;  "  forget  this  vain  dream — forget  it,  I  be- 
seech you.  Your  spirits  shall  no  more  be  put  to  a 
trial  so  severe  as  that  which  you  had  to  encounter 
the  other  night ;  for  I  plainly  see,  in  spite  of  the  ap- 
parent cheerfulness  which  subsequently  elevated 
you,  that  the  recollection  of  the  tempest  has  been  en- 
2  A  2 


358  death's  doings. 

gendering  these  hideous  phantasms.     You  shall  not 
again  trust  yourself  in  that  vehicle." 

"  And  yet,"  she  replied,  "  my  spirits  were  relieved 
by  the  former  excursion,  notwithstanding  my  reluc- 
tance to  engage  in  it ;  and  it  may  be,  that  the  storm 
which  seemed  so  full  of  danger,  but,  in  the  event,  was 
so  harmless,  served  to  convince  me  of  the  vanity  of 
my  alarms.  I  shall  always  be  under  the  dominion 
of  this  dream,  if  I  do  not  prove  its  fallacy.  For  this 
purpose,  I  will  make  a  strong  effort,  and  beg  you  to 
take  me  again  with  you  in  that  very  carriage  and 
along  that  very  road,  and  I  shall  doubtless  return 
home  liberated  from  the  haunting  terror." 

*'  I  congratulate  you,  from  my  heart,  on  your  re- 
solution," said  Sir  Henry,  embracing  his  wife.  *' We 
will  go,  and,  as  you  say,  you  shall  have  abundant 
demonstration  of  the  groundlessness  of  your  dread." 

To  put  her  determination  in  practice  was,  however, 
as  she  had  premised,  a  painful  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  lady.  She  trembled  as  she  stepped  into  the  car- 
riage, and  dropped  into  her  seat,  with  the  desperate 
air  of  one  obliged  to  submit  to  some  extreme  cala- 


THE    FOREBODING.  359 

rnity.  With  such  a  white  face  and  forced  compo- 
sure, did  Tell  level  the  arrow  against  the  apple  on 
his  dear  boy's  head  ;  and  so  looked  Brutus  as  he  as- 
sumed the  judgment-seat  to  pronounce  sentence  of 
death  on  his  son  ! 

It  was  a  lovely  day,  with  fresh  airs  breathing 
about,  and  a  sky  deeply  blue  like  that  of  the  South. 
In  the  course  of  the  journey,  they  turned,  they 
scarcely  knew  how  it  happened,  into  a  lane  in  which 
they  did  not  recollect  to  have  ever  been  before.  It 
was  a  solitary  spot ;  the  road  was  exceedingly  un- 
even, and  the  swaying  of  the  carriage  to  and  fro  was 
occasionally  not  without  danger.  They  had  pene- 
trated the  avenue  so  far  that  it  was  not  advisable  to 
return  ;  yet,  although  the  way  was  so  uncouth,  they 
could  hardly  fear  an  accident,  as  the  horses  were 
known  to  be  steady,  and  the  mid-day  light  was  so 
strong  and  clear.  Presently  they  came  to  a  break  in 
the  hedge  on  one  side,  and  this  shewed  thera  that 
they  were  on  the  brink  of  a  sudden  descent  into  a 
deep  dell.  The  lady  shuddered  violently  as  she  saw 
this ;  but  Sir  Henry,  in  an  attempt  to  re-assure  her, 
said : 

^*  There  is  nothing  here  to  fear,  although  it  must 


3G0  death's  doings. 

be  confessed  this  pit  looks  ugly  enough.  You  know 
I  am  an  approved  good  charioteer,  and,  see,  yonder 
we  shall  have  the  fence  again.     Cheer  up,  my  love." 

He  had  no  sooner  said  these  words  than  a  large 
bird  darted  out  from  the  opposite  hedge  with  a  rush- 
ing noise  across  the  eyes  of  the  horses,  who,  taking 
fright  thereat,  pulled  difl^rent  ways,  and  grew  ut- 
terly unmanageable.  The  lady  had  only  time  to 
shriek  out,  "  See  the  horses!  the  dream,  the  dream  !" 
— when  the  carriage  rolled  on  one  side,  and  then  was 
precipitated  over  the  edge  of  the  steep . 

Some  peasants,  who  accidentally  strayed  into  that 
unfrequented  place  the  same  evening,  found  the  car- 
riage among  briers  and  underwood,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  dell,  the  horses  mangled  and  dying,  and  the  hus- 
band and  wife  folded  in  each  others'  arms,  dead  and 
cold  ! 

C.  O. 


DEATH'S   MEGISTER. 


361 
DEATH   (A  DEALER), 

TO   HIS   LONDON   CORRESPONDENT. 


Per  post,  sir,  received  your  last  invoice  and  letter, 
No  consignment  of  your's  ever  suited  me  better : 
The  burnt  bones  (for  flour)  far  exceeded  my  wishes. 
And  the  coculus  indicus  beer  was  delicious. 

Well,  I'm  glad  that  at  last  we  have  hit  on  a  plan 
Of  destroying  that  long-living  monster,  poor  man : 
With  a  long-neck'd  green  bottle  I'll  finish  a  lord. 
And  a  duke  with  a  pate  d,  la  perigord ; 
But  to  kill  a  poor  wretch  is  a  diflferent  case. 
For  the  creatures  will  live,  though  I  stare  in  their 
face. 

Thanks  to  you,  though,  the  times  will  be  speedily 

alter'd. 
And  the  poor  be  got  rid  of  without  being  halter'd  : 
For  ale  and  beer  drinkers  there's  nothing  so  proper  as 
Your  extracts  of  coculus,  quassia,  and  copperas — 


362  death's  doings. 

Call'd  ale,  from  the  hundreds  that  ail  with  them  here. 
And  beer,  from  the  numbers  they  bring  to  their  bier !  * 

In  vain  shall  they  think  to  find  refuge  in  tea — 
That  decoction's  peculiarly  favoured  by  me ; 
Sloe-leaves  make  the  tea — verdigris  gives  the  bloom — 
And  the  slow  poison's  sure  to  conduct  to  the  tomb. 
As  for  coffee,    Fred.  Accura  well  knows  the  word 

means 
Naught  but  sand,  powder,  gravel,  and   burnt  peas 

and  beans. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  they  drink  only  water — 
I  think  there  may  still  be  found  methods  to  slaughter 
A  few  of  the  blockheads  who  think  they  can  bam  me 
By  swallowing  that  tasteless  liqueur. — Well,  then, 

d — me 
(You'll  pardon  my  wrath),  they  shall  drink  till  they're 

dead 
From  lead  cisterns — to  me  'twill  be  sugar  of  lead ! 

When  deeper-purs'd  fellows,  addicted  to  swill,  would 
Drink   port — I'll  make  use  of  your  load  of  Brazil 
wood : 

*  Both  these  puns  have  been  consecrated  by  Bishop  Andrews,  in 
his  ex-ale-tation  of  ale.  This  poem  has  also  been  ascribed  to  Beau- 
mont. 


DEATH  (a    dealer.)  363 

But  I  wish  you'd  send  more  laurel-leaves  and  sweet 
brier 

For  such  as  may  like  sherry  flavoured  much  higher  ! 

For  the  bottles, — you  know,  sir,  I'm  fairly  entrust- 
ing 'em 

To  your  tartrate  of  potash  for  finely  incrusting  'em. 

Laurel-water,  oak  saw-dust,  and  quicklime,  have 
come 

Just  in  time  to  be  mixed  with  the  brandy  and  rum. 

Beer,  tea,  coffee,  wine,  rum,  brandy,  water — I  think 
We've  prepared  for  the  stomachs  of  all  those  who 

drink  ; 
And  you'll  kindly  assist  me  to  work  a  like  feat 
By  pois'ning  the  stomachs  of  all  those  who  eat. 
Alum,  clay,  bones,  potatoes,  shall  mix  in  their  bread. 
And  their  Gloucester  derive  its  deep  blush  from  red 

lead ! 
But  why  do  I  mention  such  matters  to  you, 
Who  without  my  poor  hints  know  so  well  what  to  do? 
You  provide  for  the  grocer,  the  brewer,  the  baker. 
As  they  in  their  turn  do  for  the  undertaker. 

P.  S. — By  the  by,    let  me  beg  you,   in  future,   my 

neighbour. 
To  send  me  no  sugar  that's  rais'd  by/ree  labour, 


364  death's  doings. 

Unless  you  can  mingle  a  little  less  salt 

In  the  pound — for  the  public  presume  to  find  fault 

With  the  new  China   sweetening — and  though  they 

allow 
That  they'll  take  the  saints'  sugar  (attend  to  me  now,) 
Even  cum  grano  salis — they  do  say  that  such 
An  allowance  as  30  per  cent,  is  too  much. 

Your's,  &c. 


365 


DEATH  AND  HIS  ALLIES. 


'Tis  said, — and  when  we  find  in  rhyme 

These  words,  to  doubt  them  were  a  crime ; 

'Tis  said, — although  I  greatly  fear 

I  can't  exactly  tell  you  where. 

That  Death  one  day  began  to  think 

His  trade  was  just  upon  the  brink 

Of  bankruptcy :  so  few  there  came 

To  his  grim  regions  that  he  wanted  game. 

He  thought  his  labours  nearly  o'er. 
So  little  mischief  was  there  brewing 
To  save  him,  as  it  seemed,  from  ruin. 

"  It  was  not  thus,"  he  cried,  "  of  yore. 
When  many  a  great  and  glorious  fray 
Sent  myriads  to  me  in  a  day. 
But  men  are  grown  so  chicken-hearted 
Since  they  with  chivalry  have  parted, 
They  will  not  venture  now  their  lives. 
E'en  for  their  better  halves — their  wives. 
But  live  so  prudently  and  quiet, 
Without  debauchery,  war,  or  riot. 


366  death's  doings. 

That  scarcely  one  per  day  arrives 

At  this  our  court. — It  was  not  thus 

When  great  Achilles  made  such  fuss  ; 

When  Alexander,  Caesar,  and  a  score 

Of  others  sent  me  ample  store 

Of  human  victims,  daily— duly, — 

Those  wholesale  butchers  whom  I  love  so  truly  ! 

Nor  was  it  thus  when  pious  Mary, 

Of  dear  subjects'  lives  ne'er  chary. 

Grilled  heretics ;  and  for  my  dinner 

Served  up  full  many  a  roasted  sinner. 

Oh  !  for  some  war — no  matter  what. 

Profane  or  pious, — not  a  jot. 

Murder  is  but  a  retail  trade, 

A  petty,  sneaking,  smuggling  game  : 
'Tis  not  by  that  my  gains  are  made. 

But  war  and  glory,  honour,  fame  ! — 
'Tis  these  who  for  me  still  prepare 
A  plenteous  banquet  worth  my  care. 
But  now — in  truth  'tis  very  plain 
That  I  must  try  some  aid  to  gain." 
He  called  ;  a  numerous  train  appear 
T'  espouse  his  cause, — his  mandates  hear. 
Mars  first  of  course  vowed  to  stand  by  him ; 
And  swore  he  only  need  to  try  him. 
''  Go  then  ;  but  take  the  fair  disguise 
Of  Glory  :  so  wc  win  the  prize  ! 


L  367 


DEATH  AND  HIS  ALLIE 


And  cheat  the  world,  and  gain  our  ends. 

And  each  our  honest  trade  commends — 

The  fair — the  coward — and  the  cruel. 

War ! — on  my  word,  it  is  a  jewel ! 

But  you,  fair  lady — what  can  you 

For  Death,  in  these  sad  times,  now  do?" 

"  Sir,"  cried  the  dame, — of  winning  mien. 

For  fairer  sure,  was  never  seen  ; 

"  Full  many  a  good  turn  have  I  done  ye. 

And  many  a  noble  prize  have  won  ye. 

And  though  I  scorn  myself  to  praise 

A  stancher  friend,  in  all  your  days. 

Was  never  Mars,  nor  wanton  Bacchus — 

I  like  that  jolly  rogue  lacchus  ! — 

Nor  notwithstanding  all  their  toils. 

Have  they  e'er  brought  you  richer  spoils. 

There's  been  some  business,  sir,  between  us — 

You  can't  forget  sure,  your  friend  Venus  1 

And  here's  my  comrade  Mercury — 

A  trustier  dog  you  ne'er  shall  see. 

Also  the  worthy  iEsculapius : 

A  very  pretty  sort  of  knave  he  is, 

Although  he  looks  so  meek  and  pious ; 

You  know  him  well, — and  he'll  stand  by  us.** 

The  leech  now  spoke,  and  said  he'd  pill  all — 

And  drug,  and  undertake  to  kill  all — " 


368  death's  doings. 

Ills,  he'd  have  said,  had  not  a  cough 

Unlucky  lopped  the  sentence  off. 

At  hearing  him  of  killing  speak, 

A  ghastly  smile  o'erspread  the  cheek 

Of  Death,  for  very  well  he  knew 

He'd  kill  diseases  and — the  patients  too : 

"  Go,  ^sculapius,  then  ;  be  ready 

To  take  the  form  of  Doctor 

Go  then,  and  London's  walls  shall  see 

Your  name,  which  there  shall  blazoned  be." 

One  now  advanced  with  a  book, — 

"  Sir  Death,  your  servant, — I'm  a  cook — 

Have  done  some  service — Here,  sir,  look — 

Here  are  receipts  and  savoury  dishes 

That  to  your  net  will  bring  some  fishes. 

I,  with  friend  Bacchus  and  Sir  Gout, 

Will  never  let  your  stock  be  out — 

I  warrant  me,  we'll  suit  your  wishes. 

Aye  ;  quite  as  well  as  Famine,  Pest, 

Friend  Mars — or  any  of  the  rest. 

As  for  old  Nature  she  is  drowsy. 

But  we — you  shan't  complain — we'll  rouse  ye." 

Honour  stepped  forth,  and  made  his  bow. 

His  pistols  showed,  and  with  a  vow 

Swore  he  would  send  him  fools  enow. 

Death  grinned  a  smile  of  approbation, 

And  thus  addressed  the  convocation. 


DEATH  AND  HIS  ALLIES.  369 

'*  My  best  and  worthiest  friends,  to  you 

All  praise  and  thanks  from  me  are  due. 

I  know.  Sir  Mars,  your  noble  spirit ; 

And  Venus,  well  I  prize  your  merit. 

With  Honour,  Glory,  Mars,  and  Bacchus — 

Oh  !  who  shall  dare  now  to  attack  us  ! 

With  Venus,  Doctor,  Mercury — 

Now  the  whole  world  I  may  defy; 

Nor  ought  I  too  to  overlook 

The  services  of  Master  Cook, 

Nor  of  Dame  Fashion,  who  has  sent 

At  times  a  pretty  compliment, 

A  nice  tid-bit,  in  gauzy  drapery. 

Just  fit  to  put  into  my  apery, 

'Tis  you,  my  stanch  allies  and  friends. 

On  whom  success  so  much  depends. 

Nature  ! — with  her  I  ne'er  had  plenty  : 

Where  she  sends  one,  you  send  rae  twenty. 

Were  't  not  for  you,  my  noble  peers, 

I  should  be  greatly  in  arrears. 

More  trusty  friends  I  need  not  ask. 

To  you  I  delegate  the  task 

To  hunt  me  game — beneath  your  mask. 

Your  merits  are  so  great,  I  vow. 

To  whom  the  preference  to  allow 

I  hardly  know. 
Or  where  the  palm  I  should  bestow. 


370  death's  doings. 

Which  to  prefer  would  much  perplex. 
Then  let  take  place  the  fairer  sex  ; 
And  Venus,  Honour,  Glory,  ye 
Shall  my  fair  train  of  Graces  be. 
Ye  look  so  bright,  ye  are  so  winning. 
The  world  will  ne'er  desist  from  sinning. 
Then  stir  up  lust,  and  war,  and  hate. 
And  all  the  ministers  of  fate. 
Riot,  and  luxury,  and  vice, — 
Excuse  my  terms  not  over  nice — 
Thus  mortals  will  my  presence  court, 
And  fancy  Death  to  be  but  sport. 


W.  H.  L. 


371 


AN  AUXILIARY  OF  DEATH. 


It  was  in  the  tranquil  reign  of  — ,  when 

neither  war,  pestilence,  nor  famine,  swept  the  sub- 
jects of  his  kingdom  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  that 
the  grim  Monarch  of  the  tomb  began  to  think  himself 
defrauded  of  his  rights,  and  to  devise  how  to  remedy 
the  wrongs  which  he  concluded  had  been  inflicted 
upon  him. 

And,  first,  he  called  before  him  his  regulating 
agent.  Old  Father  Time,  upbraiding  him  with  length- 
ening the  years  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  favoured 
empire,  and  especially  by  unnaturally  prolonging 
the  duration  of  peace. 

With  this  Time  said  he  had  nothing  to  do,  but 
that  he  could  perhaps  give  a  guess  at  one  of  the 
causes  that  kept  this  portion  of  the  human  race  a 
longer  period  than  heretofore  on  earth.     It  was  that 

2b 


372  death's  doings. 

a  learned  and  skilful  leech*  had  succeeded  in 
quelling  a  direful  malady  ;  and  that  not  only  this 
pestilent  disorder,  but  others  of  a  very  malignant 
kind,  had  been  greatly  mitigated  by  the  progress  of 
knowledge  which  had  of  late  years  diminished  the 
practice  of  medicine. 

At  this  information.  Death  cast  a  withering  look 
around  him,  and,  in  a  sepulchral  tone,  commanded 
some  of  the  principal  destroyers  of  the  human  race 
to  appear  in  his  presence. 

And  now  a  low,  but  portentous  sound  was  heard, 
as  coming  from  a  remote  part  of  the  cavern  in 
which  Death  held  his  court,  which  gradually  be- 
came more  audible  and  terrific,  until  a  form,  gi- 
gantic in  size,  and  furious  in  aspect,  stood  revealed. 
The  uproar  which  immediately  preceded  his  ap- 
proach resembled  the  discharge  of  artillery,  the 
clashing  of  swords,  and  the  shouts  of  combat, 
mixed  with  the  groans  of  dying  men. — It  was  the 
Demon  of  War. 


*  Some  presume   that  Dr.  Jenner,  of  vaccine  celebrity,    is  here 
alluded  to. — Ed. 


AN  AUXILIARY  OF  DEATH.  373 

This  fell  destroyer  was,  however,  soon  dismissed  ; 
his  readiness  to  serve  was  not  at  all  questioned  : 
and,  if  Death  had  to  complain  of  the  want  of  sup- 
plies. War  had  to  grumble  at  his  want  of  employ- 
ment.— He  accordingly  filed  off  with  marks  of  ap- 
probation, and  an  assurance  that  his  vacation  would 
not  last  long. 

The  phantom  that  next  appeared  was  preceded 
by  no  sounds,  but  a  chilling  atmosphere  seemed 
to  invade  even  the  chamber  of  Death,  and  the 
gaunt  figure  of  Famine,  with  its  meagre  and 
wasted  visage,  stood  before  the  universal  devas- 
tater  of  mankind. 

Upon  being  questioned  why  he  had  not  visited 
the  favoured  land  and  given  his  powerful  assist- 
ance in  forwarding  the  works  of  the  Destroyer, 
he  readily  answered,  that  he  acted  only  on  com- 
mission, and  by  the  decrees  of  a  higher  power. 
True,  he  had  his  substitutes,  the  monopolists  ; — 
some  how  or  other,  however,  their  measures  were 
defeated  by  the  bounty  of  Providence,  or  the  vigi- 
lance of  the  government ;  but  he  had  an  all-pow- 
erful   friend    and    ally    whom    he    would    presently 

2  b2 


374  death's  doings. 

introduce,  with  the  permission  of  his  mighty  Com- 
mander, who  had  already  made  no  inconsiderable 
inroads  on  the  human  frame  by  mixing  himself 
in  every  society,  where  he  seldom  failed  in  plant- 
ing his  baneful  influence,  and  in  accelerating  the 
march  to  the  tomb. 

Desirous  of  being  acquainted  with  the  ally  and 
friend  of  Famine,  Death  gave  instant  orders  for 
his  admission  ;  and  accordingly  a  low  breathing 
was  first  heard,  which  gradually  increased  to  deep 
sighs,  and,  on  a  signal  given  by  Famine,  a  figure 
started  into  view  :  his  pace  sudden  and  irregular, 
his  looks  eager  and  penetrating,  his  visage  sallow 
and  gaunt  like  that  of  his  precursor, — and,  hide- 
ous to  relate,  he  was  in  the  act  of  feeding  upon  a 
human  heart ;  while  the  looks  that  he  cast  around 
him  seemed  to  evince  an  insecurity  of  enjoyment 
of  the  hateful  meal. 

The  auxiliary  now  brought  into  the  awful  pre- 
sence was  Care,  who,  tremulous  from  anxiety, 
suspended  awhile  his  operation  of  devouring,  in 
obedience  to  the  commands  of  so  absolute  an  inter- 
rogator. 


AN  AUXILIARY  OF  DEATH.  375 

In  exhibiting  his  means  to  effect  the  destruction 
of  the  human  race,  he  produced  a  mixture  which 
had  the  power  so  to  canker  and  corrode  the  heart 
it  once  entered,  that  neither  wealth  nor  greatness 
could  withstand  its  baneful  influence ;  and,  while 
the  fiendlike  power  was  describing  the  various 
characters  that  had  sunk  beneath  the  effects  of 
this  subtle  poison,  it  seemed  as  if  Care  himself 
could  be  diverted  from  carefulness  when  ardently 
employed.  The  details  of  his  operations,  and  the 
artifices  used  by  the  afflicted  parties  to  disguise 
their  malady,  threw  a  fitful  gleam  over  the  counte- 
nance of  the  grim  tyrant,  that  gave  a  momentary 
emotion  to  his  ghastly  features ;  but  whether  the  ex- 
pression was  surprise,  or  triumphant  malignity,  was 
not  easily  to  be  determined. 

A  pause  of  some  length  ensued,  after  which  Care 
was  permitted  to  touch,  by  way  of  approbation,  the 
icy  hand  of  Death,  and  to  receive  a  regular  commis- 
sion enlisting  him  into  the  various  forces  employed 
in  the  destruction  of  the  human  species.  Hence 
he  carries  on  his  operation  in  courts,  in  camps,  in 
the  palace  of  the  monarch,  and  in  the  cottage  of  the 
villager.     But  it  is  in  civilized  life,  and  amid  scenes 


376  death's  doings. 

of  leisure  and  retirement  (where  his  presence  is 
least  suspected)  that  his  power  is  mostly  felt :  in- 
deed, a  laugh  is  no  unfrequent  disguise  that  his 
victims  put  on,  and  his  place  of  concealment  is  often 
a  bed  of  roses. 

Hatchment. 


THE    LAWYER. 


377 


DEATH  AND  THE  LAWYER. 


A  DIALOGUE. 


DEATH. 

Good  morrow.  Sir !  my  call,  I  trust,  is 
Agreeable  to  Law  and  Justice  ; — 
You  see,  I've  got  a  cause  in  hand. 
So  brought  the  brief— 

LAWYER. 

I  understand — 
But,  truly,  when  at  first  you  enter'd. 
To  raise  my  eyes  I  scarcely  ventur'd ; 
So  very  like  a  ghost  you  look'd, 
I  almost  fancied  I  was  book'd. 

DEATH. 

And  so  I  think  you  are,  my  bold  one, 

Book'd  for  a  passage  to  the  Old  One. —     [Aside. 

Ah,  Sir !  so  wondrous  thin  I'm  grown. 

That  urchins  cry  out  Daddy  Bone  ; 


378  death's  doings. 

While  full-grown  wags  indulge  their  whim. 
And,  jeering,  call  me  Gaffer  Grim  ! 

LAWYER. 

The  varlets  !  do  they  ? — that's  a  libel. 

As  sure  as  truth  is  in  the  Bible ; 

Scan.  mag.  at  least,  and  defamation. 

To  any  gent,  of  reputation. 

My  dear  Sir,  let  me  bring  an  action 

Against  the  rogues — and  satisfaction. 

In  damages,  you'll  get,  depend  on't ; — 

Nay,  that  alone  mayn't  be  the  end  on't ; 

For,  if  I  can,  a  bitter  pill 

I'll  give  them  in  a  Chancery  bill ; 

And  when  I  once  have  got  them  there. 

Such  affidavits  I'll  prepare. 

That  though  they  swear  with  all  their  might, 

I'll  prove,  if  need  be,  black  is  white. 

That  right  is  wrong,  and  wrong  is  right ; 

And — what  to  them  the  greatest  curse  is — 

However  full,  I'll  drain  their  purses. 

DEATH. 

I  dare  say  your  advice  is  proper — 
But,  Sir,  these  chaps  have  not  a  copper 
To  spend  in  law-^ 


DEATH  AND  THE  LAWYER.         379 
LAWYER. 

Oh,  never  mind — 
The  money,  somewhere,  I  would  find  ! 
Indeed,  I  feel  for  you  sincerely. 
And  fain  would  punish  them  severely. — 
But  what's  your  present  business,  pray  ? 

DEATH. 

Why,  Sir,  I  wait  on  you  to-day. 

To  bring  the  brief  and  a  retainer —      [Gives  a  fee. 

LAWYER. 

I  hope,  dear  Sir,  you'll  be  a  gainer. 

\^Pockets  the  fee,  and  hows. 

DEATH. 

You  hope  so,  eh  ? — you'll  change  your  story 

When  you've  discover'd  who's  before  ye.      \_Aside. 

The  brief,  I  think,  youM  better  read. 

And  afterwards  we  may  proceed 

To  see  what  course  we  should  pursue  ; 

The  facts  I'll  fairly  state — and  you 

Can  then  judge  what  you  ought  to  do. 

LAWYER. 

Why,  as  to  reading  briefs,  the  fact  is, 
*Tis  not  exactly  modern  practice  ; 


380  death's  doings. 

However,  I  can  skim  it  through. 
And  make  a  marginal  or  two — 
That  I  can  do  in  half  a  minute — 
But,  good  or  bad  your  cause,  I'll  win  it ! 

[  Takes  the  brief, — reads, — hut  soon  appears 
dreadfully  agitated.] 

DEATH. 

Why  look  you.  Sir,  with  such  surprise  ? 

Why  shakes  your  frame — why  roll  your  eyes? — 

Your  client!  see,— without  disguise  ! 

l^Death  throws  off  his  clothing. 

LAWYER. 

Dread  Spectre  !  are  you  what  you  seem — 

Or  am  I  in  a  frightful  dream  ? — 

And  oh ! — the  brief! — what  dreadful  pain 

Now  racks  my  poor  distracted  brain ! 

What  horrid  vision  of  the  night 

Is  this  which  stands  before  my  sight. 

And  fills  me  with  such  dire  affright? 

Hence — hence  ! — I  pray  ye— hence  ! 

DEATH. 

Not  I ; 
Before  I  go,  the  cause  we'll  try : — 


DEATH  AND  THE  LAWYER.  381 

My  case,  at  full,  I'll  fairly  state  ; 

You,  as  your  brethren's  advocate. 

Must  meet  the  charges  I  shall  bring. — 

Thus,  then,  as  counsel  for  the  King, 

I  am  instructed  to  maintain. 

That  all  the  money  you  obtain. 

The  produce  is  of  woe  and  pain  ; 

That  dire  contention  and  confusion 

Are  brought  about  by  your  collusion ; 

That  law  and  endless  litigation 

(Which  ruin  more  than  half  the  nation. 

Entailing  mis'ry  on  mankind) 

Delight  your  mercenary  mind  ; 

That  civil  broils,  domestic  jars. 

Seduction,  rapine,  murders,  wars. 

Men's  own  misfortunes  and  their  neighbours', 

Are  all  encouraged  by  your  labours : 

What  say  you.  Sir  ? 

LAWYER. 

With  due  submission, 
I'd  humbly  state,  no  fair  decision 
I  possibly  can  here  obtain ; 
For,  if  by  right  I  were  to  gain 
The  cause,  I'm  almost  sure  ye 
Would  constitute  both  judge  and  jury  : 


382  death's  doings. 

I  therefore  do  submit,  by  law. 
We  ought,  this  action  to  withdraw. 

DEATH. 

D'ye  doubt  my  justice? — Zounds  and  fury  ! 

LAWYER. 

Justice  !  we  that  leave  to  the  Jury  ; 

The  Law  knows  nothing  (although  odd  it  is) 

Of  justice,  truth,  and  such  commodities. 

DEATH. 

Ah  !  say  you  so  ? — what  is  Law,  then  ? 

LAWYER. 

Law  is  a  trade — by  which  some  men 
Arrive  at  honours,  wealth,  and  state  ; 
Others  there  are,  less  fortunate. 
Who  drive  a  harmless  goose's  quill 
From  morn  to  night  with  no  small  skill. 
And  yet  can  ne'er  their  bellies  fill ; 
But  they  are  simpletons — and  whoso 
Knows  their  fate,  will  never  do  so. 

DEATH. 

How,  Sir !  explain  ! — but  no  digression. — 


DEATH  AND  THE    LAWYER.  383 

LAWYER. 

This  trade — or,  rather,  "  the  profession" 
Requires,  you  see,  a  man  of  parts. 
One  who  has  learnt  the  useful  arts — 

DEATH. 

"  The  useful  arts  !" — pray,  which  are  they  1 

LAWYER. 

For  little  work,  to  get  great  pay  ; — 

But  if  he  see  no  hopes  of  booty. 

Of  course  he  should  perform  no  duty  ; — 

Thus,  if  he  can  his  int'rest  serve. 

And  get  rewarded,  he  may  swerve 

From  any  needy  half-starv'd  client ; — 

In  short,  to  int'rest  be  compliant 

Eternally— no  earthly  reason 

Should  put  self-int'rest  out  of  season ; — 

With  Lawyers  'tis  a  standing  dish, — 

Their  meat  and  drink  ! — 

DEATH. 

Come,  Sir,  I  wish 
You'd  cut  the  matter  rather  short. 
Or  else,  perhaps,  I  may  resort 
To  means  which  may  be  not  quite  pleasant. 


384  death's  doings. 

LAWYER. 

Pray  do  not  mention  them  at  present ! 

You  bade  me  tell — what  our  arts  are, — 

I've  told  you  truly,  I  declare ; 

And  I  should  hope,  that  so  much  candour. 

Without  a  syllable  of  slander. 

Would  e'en  from  you  some  kind  regard 

Beget — indeed  'twere  very  hard 

That  I  should  thus  expose  my  friends. 

And  you  not  make  me  some  amends. 

DEATH. 

Sir,  you  presume ! — remember  I 
Came  here,  a  ticklish  cause  to  try ; 
Though,  possibly,  put  off  I  may 
The  trial  to  another  day ; — 
But,  come — I'll  hear  a  little  more 
About  the  "  useful  arts"  of  your 
"  Profession." 

LAWYER. 

Proud  am  I  to  say. 
That  no  one  can  these  arts  display 
Better  than  he  who  stands  before  ye. — 
Thus,  then,  I  now  resume  my  story  :— 
A  Lawyer  ought  to  take  delight  in 
All  kinds  of  broils,  abuse,  and  fighting ; 


DEATH  AND  THE  LAWYER.  385 

For,  few  things  likelier  are  to  fill 
His  pocket  than  a  sivingemg  bill, 
Obtain'd  through  any  civil  action, 
When  parties,  seeking  satisfaction, 
Go  to  the  Bench  or  Common  Pleas — 
For  clever  Lawyers  there,  with  ease, 
Get  fame,  as  well  as  lots  of  fees ! 
He  should  no  legal  mode  neglect. 
The  public's  follies  to  correct; 
By  this  I  mean,  a  good  tactician 
Should  fearlessly  perform  his  mission, 
Nor  suffer  any  threadbare  maxim 
'Bout  want  of  honesty  to  tax  him — 

DEATH. 

Hold  !  hold  ! — for  Honesty's  abus'd. 
Whene'er  the  word's  by  Lawyers  us'd. 
I've  heard  enough! — so,  come  with  me. 

LAWYER. 

Oh,  no  !  we  never  should  agree  ; 
Besides,  you  said,  some  other  day 
You'd  call,  when  I  was  in  the  way. 

DEATH. 

I  own  I  did — then,  be  it  so, 
And  when  you  feel  dispos'd  to  go. 


^4 


386 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


Perhaps  you'll  kindly  let  me  know  :— 

As  to  the  cause  I  had  to  try 

With  you — why,  let  it  e'en  stand  by — 

Some  other  time  will  do — I'll  now. 

With  your  permission,  make  my  bow  ; 

But  don't  forget  me  !  if  you  do, 

I'll  certainly  remember  you. 

And  you  shall  recollect  this  warning ; — 

Good  morning  to  you.  Sir — good  morning  ! 

Next  time  you'll  go  /—I'll  not  be  flamm'd. 

{Exit  Death. 

LAWYER    (solus). 

Go ! — if  I  do  go, 


S.  M. 


387 


L  A  W 


*'  To  him  who  goes  to  law,  nine  things  are  requi- 
site. First,  a  good  deal  of  money;  secondly,  a 
good  deal  of  patience ;  thirdly,  a  good  cause ; 
fourthly,  a  good  attorney ;  fifthly,  a  good  counsel ; 
sixthly,  good  evidence;  seventhly,  a  good  jury; 
eighthly,  a  good  judge  ;  and,  ninthly,  good  lucky 

Law  has  been  most  aptly  compared  to  an  ab- 
sorbent pipe  or  channel,  through  which,  whatever  may 
be  poured  into  it,  nothing  passes ;  and  its  delay  and 
expense  have  been  exemplified  by  a  chancery  suit, 
which,  having  maintained  its  conductor  for  thirty 
years,  is  left  as  a  notable  legacy  to  his  heir.  It  has 
been  made  a  question,  whether  more  than  half  the 
estates  in  this  kingdom  would  not  change  possessors, 
was  their  legality  properly  sifted.  Few,  it  is 
thought,  would  bear  the  ordeal  touch  of  the  lawyer's 
quill;  "flaw  in  the  best"  might  be  found — some 
are  **  flaw  all  over." 

2  c 


388  death's  doings. 

Law-terms  may,  in  a  great  measure,  be  under- 
stood for  their  opposites  ;  thus  : — 

For  Action,  i-ead  Confinement. 

—  Brief,  Length  or  Delay. 

—  Securities,  Uncertainties. 

—  Deeds,  Words. 

—  Settlement,  Contentions. 

—  Suit,  Rags  to  the  Client ;  though  warm  clothing 

to  the  Lawyer. 

As  for  justice,  it  is  an  obsolete  term,  thought  by 
some  to  signify  the  largest  fee ;  many  doubt  its  ex- 
istence on  earth,  and  compare  it  to  the  perpetual  mo- 
tion, the  philosopher's  stone,  the  grand  elixir,  or  any 
other  chimera  of  the  imagination. 

It  may  well  be  said,  that  what  is  one  man's  meat 
is  another's  poison :  since  it  is  found  that  there  are 
those  of  so  perverse  a  disposition,  that  they  cannot 
live  without  litigation,  and  must  be  handling  the  net 
of  the  law  till  they  get  entangled  in  its  meshes. 
Characters  of  this  description  are  principally  found 
in  country  places,  where  causes  spring  up  as  fast  as 
weeds,  and  are  sure  to  encumber  the  richest  soils  ; 
then  there  is  the  game — what  a  prolific  source  of 
envy,  hatred,  and  malice  is  the  protection  of  game  ! 
How  many  wrongs  do  the  rights  of  man  generate  ! 
What  a  cause  of  bitterness  to  a  sportsman  is  the  full 
bag  of  a  permitted  shot ! 


LAW.  389 

From  a  box  of  game  may  have  sprung  evils  al- 
most as  various  as  those  which  issued  from  that  of 
Pandora ;  and  while  the  London  epicure  is  picking 
his  teeth  after  his  savoury  meal,  the  purveyor  may 
be  paying  the  expenses  in  a  law-suit,  shot  in  a 
poaching  broil,  or  taking  a  trip  to  Botany  Bay. 

**  Have  you  got  an  attorney  aboard  ?"  cried  old 
Hawser  Trunnion,  as  he  approached  an  inn ;  nor 
could  he  be  induced  to  enter,  till  it  was  ascertained 
the  coast  was  clear.  Such  was  the  pointed  satire  that 
Smollett  levelled  at  the  birdlime  quality  of  law.  The 
spirit  of  the  law  is  indeed  founded  in  equity,  but  it  is 
the  business  of  the  litigators  to  quench  that  spirit ; 
— hence  arises  all  kind  of  legal  distress,  both  in 
town  and  country  ;  hence,  all  that  load  of  wretched- 
ness and  misery,  that  *  *  *  * 

God  bless  my  soul !  what  have  I  been  writing 
about? — Why  surely  it  is  not  actionable? — I  don't 
know  that ;  to  be  sure  of  it,  it  will  be  necessary  for 
me  to  examine  carefully;  let  me  see — units,  tens, 
hundreds,  thousands,  tens  of — I'll  count  no  more. 
*'  Let  me  not  think  on't,  that  way  madness  lies  ;"  the 
vision  of  such  mighty  volumes  would  appal  the 
stoutest  heart. 

2  c2 


390  death's  doings. 

But  what,  it  may  be  asked,  has  Death  to  do  with 
the  lawyer,  any  more  than  with  the  member  of  any 
other  profession  ?     It  comes  to  him  as  it  comes  to  all. 

It  may  be  so  ;  but  there  are  not  wanting  instances 
where  the  finer  network  of  the  brain,  and  a  higher- 
wrought  sensibility  of  the  nerves,  have  given  way 
to  the  entanglements  and  multiplied  intricacies  of 
law ;  till  Reason,  tottering  on  its  throne,  has  been 
at  last  extinguished  by  Death. 

But  though  this  observation  may  not  be  univer- 
sally applicable,  yet  we  believe  it  would  be  difficult 
to  find  a  character  to  whom  the  approach  of  the 
King  of  Terrors  would  frequently  be  more  ill-timed ; 
for,  under  the  circumstances  of  professional  engage- 
ments, every  thing  that  should  be  done  for  every 
body,  may  be  left,  in  chaotic  confusion,  to  be  handled 
by  the  unskilful,  or  scattered  into  fragments  to  fur- 
nish matter  for  fresh  litigation. 

Peter  Plaintiff. 


THE   AHGtILEJR. 


391 


THE    ANGLER. 


I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be  : 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me  ; 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 
I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice  ; 

*  *  *  * 

And  angle  on,  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave." 

Isaac  Walton. 


Thou  that  hast  lov'd  so  long  and  well 
The  vale's  deep  quiet  streams. 

Where  the  pure  water-lilies  dwell. 
Shedding  forth  tender  gleams ; 

And  o'er  the  pool  the  May-fly's  wing 

Glances  in  golden  eves  of  spring; 

Oh  !  lone  and  lovely  haunts  are  thine, 

Soft,  soft  the  river  flows. 
Wearing  the  shadow  of  thy  line. 

The  gloom  of  alder-boughs  ; 
And  in  the  midst,  a  richer  hue. 
One  gliding  vein  of  heaven's  own  blue ! 


392  death's  doings. 

And  there  but  low  sweet  sounds  are  heard — 

The  whisper  of  the  reed. 
The  plashing  trout,  the  rustling  bird. 

The  scythe  upon  the  mead  ; 
Yet,  through  the  murmuring  osiers  near. 
There  steals  a  step  which  mortals  fear. 

'Tis  not  the  stag  that  comes  to  lave. 

At  noon,  his  panting  breast ; 
'Tis  not  the  bittern,  by  the  wave 

Seeking  her  sedgy  nest ; 
The  air  is  fill'd  with  summer's  breath. 
The  young  flowers  laugh — yet  look !  'tis  Death  ! 

But  if,  where  silvery  currents  rove. 
Thy  heart,  grown  still  and  sage, 

Hath  learn'd  to  read  the  words  of  love 
That  shine  o'er  nature's  page ; 

If  holy  thoughts  thy  guests  have  been 

Under  the  shade  of  willows  green  ; 

Then,  lover  of  the  silent  hour 

By  deep  lone  waters  pass'd. 
Thence  hast  thou  drawn  a  faith,  a  power. 

To  cheer  thee  through  the  last ; 
And,  wont  on  brighter  worlds  to  dwell, 
Mayst  calmly  bid  thy  streams  farewell 

F.  H. 


393 


DEATH  AND  THE  ANGLER. 


There  is  a  happy  set  of  men  whose  dispositions 
are  so  well  fitted  to  every  station,  that,  in  whatever 
rank  or  situation  we  meet  them,  they  are  always 
found  pursuing  pleasures  most  precisely  adapted  to 
their  condition,  and  making  the  most  of  every  circum- 
stance that  can  conduce  to  their  quiet  or  enjoyment. 
The  whole  wisdom  of  life  is,  perhaps,  comprehended 
in  this  habitual  choice  and  quick  relish  of  attainable 
comforts.  There  are  doubtless  situations  which  af- 
ford more  opportunities  and  a  greater  variety  of 
pleasures  than  others ;  but  still,  however  confined 
may  be  the  little  range  of  their  recreations,  some  men 
will  make  so  much  of  them,  bring  so  many  of  their 
pleasantest  thoughts  and  feelings  to  bear  upon  the 
present  object,  and  so  happily  deceive  themselves 
into  the  idea  of  their  pursuits  and  enjoyments  being 
the  very  best  imaginable,  that  they  will  have  a 
greater  stock  of  happiness  to  draw  from  than  others 
who  possess  much  better  opportunities  of  obtaining 


394  death's  doings. 

it.  The  felicity  of  such  a  disposition  consists  in  not 
looking  far  beyond  our  present  condition  for  objects 
of  enjoyment,  and  so  not  wasting  the  time  in  search- 
ing for  good  which  might  be  passed  in  its  fruition. 
Another  of  its  principles  lies  in  choosing  such  plea- 
sures as  may  not  depend  exactly  on  our  being  at  all 
times  in  the  same  circumstances  of  rank  and  fortune, 
and  so  not  exposing  ourselves  to  the  hazard  of  dying 
of  chagrin  and  melancholy,  should  we  lose  our  money 
or  fall  out  with  our  acquaintances. 

Books,  and  habits  of  thought  and  contemplation, 
have  ever  been  the  favourite  prescription  for  insuring 
this  happy  state  of  mind,  and  remedying  both  the  real 
and  imaginary  evils  we  may  meet  with  in  life  :  and 
they  are  justly  so,  where  the  medicine  is  adapted  to 
the  constitution  ;  for,  generally  speaking,  it  is  as  in- 
dependent in  its  power  of  affording  comfort  and  con- 
lation,  as  the  mind  is  itself  of  slavery  or  confine- 
ment; but  it  is  too  refined  and  subtle  to  work  on 
every  nature.  The  gross  humours  of  flesh  and  blood 
are  not  always  to  be  purified,  or  their  turbulent  ris- 
ings to  be  subdued,  by  this  aether-like  draught;  and, 
to  be  applied  with  success,  it  requires  a  previous 
chastisement  of  the  heart  and  mind, — a  preparation 
of  character  and  feeling,  which  only  years  of  thought 


DEATH  AND  TH  li  ANGLER.  395 

and,  perhaps,  of  trial,  can  produce.  But,  happy  it 
is,  the  sources  of  pure  and  innocent  pleasure  are  not 
confined  to  the  few  whose  minds  are  thus  raised  and 
spiritualized.  The  benevolent  author  of  our  being 
has  not  left  us  so  dependent  upon  ourselves  for  en- 
joyment, or  been  so  niggard  in  the  furniture  of  the 
world,  as  to  leave  men  without  external  objects  of 
delight,  fitted  to  produce  that  satisfaction  and 
quietude  of  mind  which  others  may  perhaps  obtain 
from  their  own  internal  resources.  The  pleasant 
sights  and  sounds  of  the  country,  the  thousand  forms 
the  spirit  of  life  assumes,  and  the  combinations  of 
thought  and  employment  springing  from  these,  are 
the  natural  wealth  of  the  mind;  and  the  class  of  men 
of  which  we  have  been  speaking,  are  principally 
happy  because  they  know  how  to  enjoy  it,  and  refuse 
to  barter  its  possession  for  the  fictitious  riches  of  the 
world.  Few  men,  therefore,  are  happier  than  the 
true  lovers  of  the  angle.  Tranquil  and  contented, 
they  become  assimilated  to  the  scenes  they  fre- 
quent, lose  all  worldliness  of  spirit,  and  acquire 
that  gentle  and  subdued  tone  of  feeling  which,  if  it 
raise  them  not  above  their  fellow  men,  makes  them 
at  least  more  benevolent  and  happy.  We  can  of 
course  say  these  things  only  of  such  as  pursue  the 
art  with  diligence  and  a  true  fondness  for  its  plea- 


396  death's  doings. 

sures ;  and  I  have  had  in  ray  eye  an  old  and  faithful 
disciple  of  Izaac  Walton,  whom  I  often  accompanied 
when  a  boy,  in  his  favourite  rambles.  He  was,  in 
truth,  the  beau  ideal  of  an  angler,  and  I  loved  him, 
as  well  for  his  true  kindness  of  disposition,  as  for  his 
patience  in  instructing  me  in  the  art. 

Of  a  mind  naturally  disposed  to  retirement,  and 
somewhat  visionary  in  its  complexion,  he  found  a 
resource  in  this  amusement  which  his  slender  income 
would  have  denied  him  if  sought  in  other  pursuits; 
and  he  passed  a  long  life  of  sober,  peaceful  happi- 
ness, with  as  little  dependence  on  fortune  or  the 
world,  as  can  fall  to  the  lot  of  most  men.  He  was 
not  naturally  studious,  but  he  had,  some  how  or 
other,  picked  up  a  vast  variety  of  knowledge  which, 
floating  through  his  mind  like  a  quiet  stream,  and 
blending  with  the  fancies  of  his  own  thoughts ,  gave  a 
somewhat  learned  and  imaginative  tone  to  his  con- 
versation, which  has  lured  me  through  many  a  day 
along  the  sequestered  and  solitary  paths  which  led 
to  his  favourite  spots.  I  always  remarked  that  he 
chose  for  his  stations  the  most  picturesque  of  the 
kind  that  could  be  found  ;  and  I  have  had  often 
occasion  to  observe  in  other  persons  fond  of  this 
pursuit,  that  they  almost  invariably  fixed  upon  the 


DEATH  AND  THE  ANGLER.  397 

spots  which  a  poet  or  painter  would  have  chosen  for 
the  exercise  of  his  art. 

My  old  friend  would  travel  miles  to  one  of  these 
favourite  places ;  and  there  was  scarcely  a  stream  or 
brooklet,  far  and  near,  by  which  he  had  not  stood 
and  mused.  There  were  the  broad  meadow  waters, 
the  deep  and  narrow  forest  stream,  the  rivulet  of  the 
hills,  the  clear  gushing  brook,  and  the  troubled  fall ; 
by  all  these  he  had,  winter  and  summer,  passed 
hour  after  hour,  intensely  occupied  with  his  sport 
and  unrestrained  speculations.  When  he  had  ar- 
rived at  one  of  these  places,  and  fairly  begun  his 
operations,  his  countenance  gradually  assumed  an 
expression  of  the  most  perfect  tranquillity,  and  he 
would  begin  to  talk  of  his  experience  and  the  plea- 
sure of  the  pursuit,  till  he  brought  all  the  fairest 
branches  of  art  and  knowledge  to  bear  upon  the  sub- 
ject. He  would  first  number  the  wonderful  pro- 
perties of  the  element  which  afforded  him  such  de- 
light; wander  from  the  banks  of  the  river,  over 
which  he  was  leaning,  to  the  mighty  floods  that  tra- 
verse distant  regions, — to  the  haunted  streams  of 
northern  glens,  or  to  those  which  are  renowned 
in  story  for  some  great  and  noble  enterprise.  He 
would  thence  take  occasion  to  narrate  some  of  the 
many  curious  facts  that  were  stored  up  in  his  me- 


398  death's  doings. 

mory ;  adduce,  with  a  serious  and  devout  air,  pas- 
sages from  holy  writ,  in  illustration  of  his  remarks, 
and  moralize  with  such  a  serene  and  benevolent 
tone  of  voice,  that  his  discourse  was  like  that  music 
of  philosophy  of  which  Milton  speaks. 

I  always  looked  forward  to  a  day's  excursion  with 
this,  my  old  and  kind  instructor,  with  the  highest 
pleasure ;  and,  as  I  was  somewhat  of  a  favourite,  I 
had  frequent  opportunities  of  accompanying  him  in 
his  rambles.  It  occurred,  however,  sometimes,  that 
he  determined  on  going  to  some  distant  part  of  the 
neighbourhood,  and  he  then  made  especial  arrange- 
ments for  the  excursion,  which  was  generally  de- 
ferred till  the  weather  should  be  particularly  propi- 
tious. The  last  time  I  enjoyed  with  him  his  favour- 
ite pursuit,  was  on  an  occasion  of  this  kind.  It  was 
in  the  early  part  of  the  autumn,  and  we  had  been 
waiting  some  days  for  an  encouraging  morning. 
One  at  length  arrived,  and  we  set  off  before  the  ear- 
liest bird  had  begun  its  song.  After  having  left  the 
village,  our  path  lay  along  the  banks  of  the  stream, 
which  we  had  to  follow  for  some  miles,  before  we 
could  gain  the  desired  spot. 

The  heavy  mists  of  an  autumn  night  were  just  be- 
ginning to  be  agitated  by  the  stir  of  awakening  day. 


DEATH  AND  THE  ANGLER.  399 

and  their  thick  masses  were  coloured  here  and  there 
with  gleams  of  changing  light.  As  the  darkness 
rolled  away,  and  the  quiet  yellow-tinted  woods,  to- 
wards which  we  were  journeying,  became  visible, 
first  one  and  then  another  bird  twittered  a  few  low 
notes ;  and  these,  with  the  whisperings  of  the 
stream,  the  sigh  of  the  gale  among  the  old  gray  wil- 
lows, and  the  uncertain  murmur  of  the  distant 
echoes,  were  well  in  harmony  with  the  pleasant  mys- 
tery of  the  pensive  half-veiled  landscape.  Many 
were  the  musings  of  my  old  friend  as  we  picked  our 
path  through  the  long  dewy  grass ;  and,  whether  or 
no  it  was  but  imagination,  I  know  not,  but  I  thought 
he  seemed  more  desirous  than  I  had  ever  yet  found 
him,  though  his  reflections  had  often  had  that  ten- 
dency, of  finding  resemblances  between  seen  and 
unseen  things,  and  seizing  on  the  sweet  voices  and 
revealings  of  nature  as  illustrations  of  the  knowledge 
he  had  gained  from  a  clearer  source. 

We  at  length  arrived  at  our  destination,  and,  after 
all  due  ceremony  and  preparation,  set  ourselves 
down  by  the  side  of  as  clear  a  brook,  and  under  the 
sylvan  shade  of  as  green  a  canopy,  as  could  be 
found  in  this  fair  land  of  landscape.  It  is  almost 
impossible  to  watch  the  silent  flow  of  water  for  any 


400  death's  doings. 

length  of  time,  without  feeling  the  thoughts  steal 
away  into  the  far  future  ;  and  when  they  catch  a 
hue  of  beauty  from  surrounding  objects,  and  the 
mind  is  at  ease,  there  is  no  situation  perhaps  more 
soothing.  Our  reflections  of  course  had  the  differ- 
ent character  of  youth  and  age.  Mine  rested  in  the 
fairy  world  of  untried  humanity :  his  were  borne 
beyond  the  confines  of  time,  and  blending  the  expe- 
riences of  a  long  life  with  the  elevated  and  solemn 
joy  that  attends  the  consciousness  of  its  close. 

Hour  after  hour  had  passed  away  in  this  manner, 
and  the  deep  hush  of  noon  had  lulled  our  little 
solitary  covert  into  repose.  My  companion  was 
still  sunk  in  reverie ;  but,  as  it  was  our  usual  time 
for  repast,  I  rose  to  unpack  our  wallet  under  the 
shade.  As  soon  as  I  had  done  this,  I  returned  to 
rouse  him,  but  received  no  answer  to  my  summons; 
I  called  again,  and  a  low  sigh  made  me  conclude 
the  heat  had  overpowered  him  with  drowsiness. 
At  this  moment,  however,  his  head  sank  heavily  on 
his  breast,  and  the  angle,  which  I  had  never  before 
seen  loosened  in  his  hand,  dipped  low  in  the  stream. 
The  gentle  spirit  of  my  old  friend  had  passed  away, 
and  Death,  the  mighty  fisher  of  men,  held  him,  un- 
resisting, in  his  grasp. 

H.  S. 


401 


WALTONIAN   REMINISCENCES. 


"  Blest  silent  groves,  oh  may  you  be 
For  ever  Mirth's  best  nursery  ! 
May  pure  contents 
*  For  ever  pitch  their  tents 
Upon  these  downs,  these  meads,  these  rocks,  these  mountains, 
And  Peace  still  slumber  by  these  purling  fountains : 
Which,  we  may  every  year 
Meet  when  we  come  a-fishing  here." 

&>•  H.  Wotton. 


Scene  I. — The  River  Itchen,  below  Winchester. 
PiscATOR,  Socius,  and  Tyro. 

Piscator,  {soliloquizing').  The  world  may  say  what 
they  will  of  an  Angler's  life— your  men  of  fashion 
may  laugh  at  it — your  men  of  business  may  affect  to 
despise  it — but,  for  quiet  recreation  and  innocent  en- 
joyment, its  parallel  is  not  to  be  found  on  earth.  O 
what  a  pleasant  sight  it  is  to  view  the  young  fry 
playing  in  the  silver  stream !  how  sweet  to  hear  the 
sedges  rustling  in  the  breeze,  and  to  listen  to  the 
gurgling  music  of  the  waters  !  The  rippling  current 
and  the  placid  lake  have  at  all  times  their  peculiar 


40.2  death's  doings. 

charms ;  but  when  the  tinny  tribe  are  eager  for  the 
bait,  and  the  lynx-eyed  Trout,  darting  from  his  bed 
of  river-moss,  seizes  the  May-fly,  as  it  glides  on  the 
surface  of  the  stream,  how  it  rejoiceth  the  heart  of 
an  honest  Angler  I  he  hails  it  as  a  goodly  omen ;  then 
carefully,  but  tenderly,  fastening  to  his  hook  (as  I 
now  do)  the  pretty  little  gossamer-winged  insect,  he 
skilfully  throws  out  his  line,  and,  like  the  pious  Fish- 
ermen of  old,  patiently  waits  for  his  reward ! — Ha  ! 
who  do  I  see  yonder  ? — verily,  my  old  friend  and  bro- 
ther of  the  Angle,  Socius,  walking  hitherward,  and  in 
deep  converse  with  his  well-beloved  kinsman.  Tyro. 
Good  morrow,  gentlemen  ;  how  fares  it  with  you  ? 

Socius.  Hale  and   hearty,  brother ;    never  better. 
But  how  goes  sport  to-day,  Piscator  ? 

Piscator.  Hush  !  hush  ! — stand  aside,  I  pray  ye, 
or  you'll  frighten  away  as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever  swal- 
lowed a  hook.  There  !— steady— steady  !— now  I 
have  him :  here,  give  me  the  landing-net,  or  I  may 
yet  lose  my  labour,  for  he  is  a  strong  fish  and  seems 
to  be  none  of  the  lightest.  So !  what  think  you  of 
him? 

Tyro.  He's  a  rare  trout,  truly  ;   hog-backed  and 


WALTONIAN  REMINISCENCES.  403 

well  speckled,  and  weighs,  as  I  should  guess,  two 
pounds  or  more.  But  you  have  not  resolved  the 
question  my  Master  Socius  put  to  you—"  how  goes 
sport  to-day  ?" 

Piscator.  How  ?  why,  as  it  generally  goes  with 
one  who  practises  his  art  till  he  becomes  perfect  in 
it ;  though,  to  say  the  truth,  the  fish  are  unusually 
abstemious  this  morning  :  however,  I  have  now 
made  up  three  brace,  and  as  I  see  you  are  more  bent 
on  conversation  than  on  Angling,  with  your  good 
leave,  I  will  join  you  in  company,  and  we  will  walk 
towards  the  Dolphin,  at  the  village  of  Twyford,  hard 
by,  where  our  hostess  shall  dress  the  fish  and  pro- 
vide for  us  a  good,  plain,  comfortable  dinner ;  after 
which  we  will  endeavour  to  amuse  ourselves,  with 
innocent  discourse  and  pleasant  recollections,  till 
night-fall. 

Socius.  Agreed.  Come,  Tyro,  thou  shalt  carry 
the  spoil ;  for  the  back  of  a  lusty  young  fellow  of 
five-and-twenty  is  more  fitted  for  a  burthen,  than  that 
of  a  man  who  is  well  nigh  three-score-and-ten. 

Tyro.  'Tis  an  honourable  office,  and  I  will  per- 
form it  right  willingly. 

2  D 


404  death's  doings. 

Piscator.  I  thank  you,  my  worthy  friends ;  not 
that  I  absolutely  need  such  assistance ;  but  let  a 
man  be  ever  so  careful  of  his  health,  yet  as  old  age 
creeps  on,  his  bodily  ailments  come  with  it,  and  he 
needs  no  monitor  but  Time  to  warn  him  that  his 
strength  endureth  not  for  ever.  Look  at  yonder  hol- 
low trunk  ! — that  was  once  as  fine  and  flourishing  a 
tree  as  ever  graced  the  margin  of  a  stream.  Well 
do  I  remember  that  in  my  boyhood  its  outspreading 
limbs  o'erhung  the  river,  and  often  have  I  reclined  at 
its  foot  to  enjoy  its  umbrageous  shelter ;  but  little 
did  I  then  imagine  that  I  should  live  to  see  it  shorn 
of  its  beauty,  and  despoiled  of  its  towering  branches ; 
but,  alack!  all  things  here  must  have  an  end  ;  and  I 
feel  that,  like  that  once  noble  tree,  I  am  not  only 
stript  of  my  verdure,  but  fast  hastening  to  decay ; 
and  that — 

Sociiis.  Hold,  hold  !  I  beseech  you  ;  if  you  moral- 
ize thus,  I  fear  the  seriousness  of  your  discourse  will 
spoil  my  appetite,  although  I  am  at  this  moment  as 
hungry  as  a  hawk.  Come,  come,  cheer  up  !  you  do 
not  often  indulge  in  melancholy  reflections ;  and  you 
know  full  well  that  few  can  boast  of  such  a  vigorous 

old  age  as  yourself. See,  we  have  arrived  within 

a  few  yards  of  the  house  ;   so  let  us  take  a  turn  in 


WALTONIAN   REMINISCENCES.  405 

the  garden,  and  give  another  turn  to  our  conversa- 
tion, while  dinner  is  preparing. 

Tyro.  Do  so,  my  right  noble  Masters ;  meanwhile 
your  Scholar  will  help  our  hostess  to  prepare  the 
frugal  meal.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  II.— tI  Room  at  the  Dolphin,  Twyford.      The 
Cloth  removed  \  and  Liquor,  h)C.  on  the  Table. 

Tyro.  Yes,  yes,  my  worthy  Master,  doubtless  I 
could  succeed  with  the  Angle  if  I  knew  some  of  its 
secrets. — 'Tis  an  art  and  mystery,  as  a  body  may  say. 

Piscator.  A  fiddlestick's  end  !  Secrets  indeed ! 
Why,  were  I  to  tell  thee  all  I  know  concerning  it,  I 
should  then  fall  short  in  many  things  which  my  vene- 
rable friend  and  instructor,  my  ever-dear  Izaak  Wal- 
ton, has  set  down  in  his  matchless  treatise.  Study 
that.  Tyro,  and  it  will  afford  thee  food  for  the  mind, 
while  it  furnishes  thee  with  a  store  of  knowledge  as 
an  Angler. 

Socius.  Rightly  argued,  Piscator.  I  have  often 
told  him  to  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest 

2d2 


406  death's  doings. 

the  Complete  Angler ;  but^  I  fear  Tyro  has  too  little 
patience  ever  to  become  an  expert  master  of  the  rod 
and  line.  Still,  I  pray  thee,  answer  his  interroga- 
tories, or  he  will  grow  disheartened. 

Piscator.  Thou  knowest  that,  without  diligence, 
observation,  and  practice,  it  would  be  to  no  purpose, 
or  I  would  freely  answer  them  ;  for  he  that  hath  not 
patience  to  read  Izaak  Walton's  book  till  its  max- 
ims are  engraven  on  his  memory,  must  not  aspire  to 
become  one  of  our  fraternity,  neither  doth  he  deserve 
the  pleasure  which  your  truly  contemplative  man 
feels  from  it ;  and  he  who  can  read  the  piscatory  in- 
structions which  it  contains,  and  not  profit  by  the 
pleasant  tales  and  serious  reflections  so  ingeniously 
interwoven  amongst  them,  must  have  a  harder  heart 
and  a  softer  head,  methinks,  than  my  friend  Tyro. 

Tyro.  Nay,  nay,  Piscator,  chide  me  not.  Believe 
me,  I  have  read  the  Complete  Angler  with  delight, 
and  thereby  gleaned  much  valuable  knowledge. 
And  if  you  will  but  inform  me  which  are  the  best 
places  to  resort  to  for  the  sport  on  the  divers 
branches  of  this  stream,  I  will  speedily  endeavour  to 
prove,  by  my  performance,  that  your  advice  has  not 
been  unseasonably  bestowed. 


WALTONIAN   REMINISCENCES.  407 

Piscator.  Answered  like  a  promising  Scholar ;  and 
thou  mayst  rest  assured  I  will  not  only  satisfy  thy 
longing  upon  tliat  score,  but  thou  shalt  practise  with 
me,  and  note  what  I  do.  But  let  us  replenish  our 
glasses,  and  then,  like  good  fellows,  proceed  with 
our  harmony. 

•S'ocm*.  Agreed,  my  old  Trojan.     What  shall  it  be? 

Piscator.  What?  let  me  see.  Why,  the  three-part 
song  that  honest  Izaak  used  to  delight  in,  and 
which  he  has  often  taken  a  part  in  when  we  were 
wont  to  regale  together  after  a  fishing  excursion.  I 
do  love  to  recal  that  prince  and  patriarch  of  Anglers 
to  my  mind ;  though  I  am  free  to  confess  that  the 
Angler's  Glee  savours  but  little  of  his  own  incompar- 
able vein  of  sober  humour. 

THE  ANGLER'S  GLEE. 

Right  socially  we  live,  and  never  disagree, 

Troll  away,  troll  uway,  my  boys  ! 
Oiir  hearts,  like  our  purses,  are  open,  light,  and  free. 
And  if  the  fish  bite,  who  so  happy  as  we. 
Or  who  feel  such  innocent  joys  ? 
Then  when  from  sport  returning. 
Each  Angler  takes  his  glass. 
To  toast  some  favWite  lass 
For  ivhom  Lovers  torch  is  burning, 
The  merry  catch  goes  round,  or  the  care-killing  glee; 


408  death's  doings. 

Time  employing  cheerily, 
Life  enjoying  merrily ; 
Free  from  discord,  noise,  and  strife, 
Is  an  honest  Angler's  life, 
For  his  rod  and  line  by  day  are  the  source  of  true  delight. 
And  a  cheerful  welcome  home  is  his  sure  reward  at  night. 
Troll,  troll,  troll  aicay — troll,  troll,  troll  away. 
Troll  away,  troll  away,  my  hoys! 

Piscator.  Fill  your  glasses  ;  fill,  fill  to  the  brim  ! 
and  I  will  give  you  a  right  honest  sentiment. — Here's 
to  the  memory  of  Izaak  Walton  ;  and  may  his  fame 
float  upon  the  stream  of  Time,  as  long  as  fishes 
swim,  or  rivers  flow ! — Ah !  well  do  I  remember 
the  last  day's  sport  I  had  with  him  ;  'tis  now  up- 
wards of  forty  years  ago.  It  was  a  lovely  day  in  June, 
and  Izaak  had  turned  his  eighty-eighth  year.  I  called 
for  him,  according  to  custom,  at  his  kinsman's,  the 
Doctor's,*  and  we  began  our  operations  just  below 
the  College  Mill,  sauntering  along,  and  throwing  in 
here  and  there,  till  we  reached  Brambridge  Shallows. 
We  had  excellent  luck — excellent!  but  Izaak — 
poor  old  Izaak— found  out,  at  last,  that  to  walk 
so  far  when  on  the  verge  of  ninety  was  too  much  for 
his  strength,  and  from  that  time  he  never  ventured 

*  Dr.  Hawkins,  a  prebendary  of  Winchester,  and  the  son-in-law  of 
Izaak  Walton,  at  whose  house  he  resided  several  years  before  his 
death;  which,  according  to  the  inscription  on  the  stone  erected  to  his 
memory  in  the  cathedral  of  that  city,  took  place  in  December,  1683, 
Walton  having  attained  his  ninetieth  year.  Izaak  Walton  was  born  in 
August,  1593. —  Wood's  Athena  Oxon. 


WALTONIAN  REMINISCENCES.  409 

farther  than  St.  Cross  meadows  or  the  foot  of  St. 
Catherine's  hill,  in  pursuit  of  his  much-loved  di- 
version. 

Socius.  I  never  hear  St.  Cross  mentioned  without 
reflecting,  with  gratitude,  on  its  noble  asylum  for  age 
and  poverty :  a  more  perfect  relic  of  the  pious  bene- 
volence of  our  forefathers  is  not  to  be  found  in  Bri- 
tain than  this  goodly  Hospital  of  St.  Cross — this 
calm  and  tranquil  retreat  from  the  busy  world  of 
care  and  folly.  Tyro  and  I  came  that  way  hither, 
and  on  passing  the  porter's  lodge,  craved  the  custo- 
mary boon  of  a  crust  of  bread  and  a  horn  of  beer — not 
exactly  as  poor  wayfaring  men  would  do,  certainly ; 
for  we  put  a  piece  of  silver  in  the  porter's  palm  as  a 
token  of  our  gratitude. 

Piscator.  Ah,  that  was  just  our  Father  Walton's 
usual  manner.  He  has  done  the  self-same  thing  in 
my  company  many  times.  I  have  often  heard  him 
speak,  too,  of  the  pleasure  he  felt  in  whiling  away 
an  hour  in  the  heat  of  the  day  in  that  cool  seques- 
tered spot,  perambulating  the  shady  cloisters,  and 
picking  up  some  of  those  amusing  traditions  with 
which  the  intelligent  old  "  brother"  Peter  used  to 
delight  his  hearers.     Aye,   and  many  a  time  and  oft 


410  death's  doings. 

have  I  there  met  hira  with  young  Master  Izaak,  Dr. 
Hawkins,  or  the  late  Master  of  St.  Cross,  Dr.  Mark- 
land,  and  passed  hours  in  the  most  happy  and  in- 
structive converse.  Trust  me,  although  Izaak  was 
not  a  native  of  our  city,  no  one  was  more  delighted 
with  its  pleasant  site,  or  prouder  of  its  ancient  glories 
and  its  still  existing  charities. 

Tyro.  So  I  have  often  heard  before;  and  therefore 
have  I  thought  it  somewhat  strange  that  he  should 
have  passed  the  latter  part  of  his  life  at  Win- 
chester, and  say  little  or  nothing  in  his  Complete 
Angler  concerning  the  trout  streams  which  flow 
through  the  city,  and  give  such  freshness  and  beauty 
to  the  surrounding  country. 

Piscator.  Thou  wilt  not  marvel  thereat.  Tyro, 
when  thou  hearest  that  his  book  was  writ  some 
years  before  he  came  to  dwell  there ;  but  he  saith, 
and  saith  truly,  that  "  Hampshire  exceeds  all  Eng- 
land for  swift,  shallow,  clear,  pleasant  brooks,  and 
store  of  trouts."  This  he  knew  right  well,  from  hav- 
ing visited  the  country  in  his  early  days,  and  fished 
both  in  the  Jtchen  and  the  Test ;  *  and  I  have  often 

*  The  River  Itchen  ri?es  a  little  above  Alresford  Pond,  and  empties 
itself  into   the   Southampton   Water.     Excellent   trout  fishing  com- 


WALTONIAN    REMINISCENCES.  411 

heard  him  confess,  that  the  great  delight  and  com- 
fort of  his  old  age  consisted  in  living  in  a  place  so 
congenial  to  his  taste  and  pursuits. 


mences  at  Alresford,  continues  so  at  Itchen  Stoke,  Avington,  the  seve- 
ral Worthys,  Barton,  St.  Cross,  Twyford,  Brambridge,  Bishop's-Stoke, 
and  terminates  at  Woodmill.  In  the  pond  at  Alresford  are  particu- 
larly large  trout,  which  are  never  in  good  season  until  August.  The 
trout  at  the  before-mentioned  places  are  good  from  the  latter  end  of 
March  until  August.  Among  the  favourite  places  for  Fly-fishers  may 
be  considered  Itchen  Common,  Martyr's  Worthy  Shallows,  King's 
Worthy  River,  Bullbridge  Shallows,  Cryptshott,  St.  Cross  Mill-Pond, 
Brambridtie  Shallows,  Bishop's-Stoke  deep  water,  and  farther  on  to- 
wards Woodmill. 

On  the  Test,  the  best  fishing  is  to  be  found  at  the  following  places  : 
namely,  at  Chilbolton,  Leckford,  Longstock,  Stockbridge,  Mersh 
Court,  Bossington  Brook,  Baybridge,  Stanbridge,  Broadlands,  Test- 
wood,  and  farther  on  to  Redbridge,  where  the  said  river  falls  into  the 
Southampton  Water.  The  water  in  this  river  is  so  veiy  peUucid, 
that  the  fish  are  very  rarely  taken  except  by  doubling  rods. 

The  trout  caught  in  the  River  Test  are  infinitely  superior  to  any 
other  (almost  in  England),  being  considerably  larger  and  firmer,  and 
are  certainly  of  a  diflferent  nature  from  the  trout  taken  in  the  Itchen, 
which  are,  however,  very  good  of  their  kind. 

For  the  information  contained  in  the  foregoing  note,  our  thanks  are 
due  to  a  gentleman  of  Winchester,  whose  urbane  manners  and  skill  as 
an  Angler  justly  entitle  him  to  the  appellation  of  a  true  disciple  of  Izaak 
Walton.  Though  our  own  local  recollections  helped  us  to  the  text, 
we  confess  that  our  knowledge  of  "  the  art"  is  much  too  limited 
to  have  supplied  the  note.  Luckily  for  us,  Walton  himself  furnishes 
us  with  an  excuse  for  our  ignorance,  in  the  following  words  : — "Ang- 
ling is  somewhat  like  poetry,  men  are  to  be  bom  so  •"  and  "  he  that 
hopes  to  be  a  good  Angler,  must  not  only  bring  an  inquiring,  search- 
ing, obsei-ving  wit ;  but  he  must  bring  a  large  measure  of  hope  and 
patience,  and  a  love  and  propensity  to  the  art  itself." 


412  death's  doings. 

Sochis.  I  verily  believe,  Piscator,  that  had  Izaak 
Walton  resided  among  us  Wintonians  at  an  earlier 
period,  we  should  have  heard  less  of  his  favourite 
Tottenham  High  Cross,  and  more  of  my  favourite 
Saint  Cross.  Nay,  it  has  more  than  once  presented" 
itself  to  my  mind,  that  he  would  have  made  an  admi- 
rable historian  of  our  ancient  city,  could  he  have  been 
persuaded  to  set  about  so  praiseworthy  an  under- 
taking. You  know  he  was  not  sparing  of  his  labour 
in  research,  as  his  excellent  biographical  works  at- 
test;*— and  what  a  rich  mine  he  might  have  dug  in 
here,  where  the  bones  of  Alfred,  Egbert,  and  a  host 
of  other  sovereign  princes  still  repose !  with  what 
delight  would  he  have  descanted  on  the  pious  la- 
bours of  those  who  lie  buried  in  the  church  of  the 
Holy  Trinity !  how  pathetically  would  he  have  de- 
scribed the  virtues  and  eulogised  the  bounty  of  its 
patrons  and  benefactors,  from  the  days  of  St. 
Swithin  to  those  of  William  of  Wykeham  ! 

Piscator.  I  cannot  fall  in  with  thy  notion,  Socius, 


*  Walton  was  tlie  Biographer  of  Bishop  Saunderson,  Dr.  Donne, 
Sir  Henry  Wotton,  Mr.  George  Herbert,  and  Mr.  Richard  Hooker,  all 
eminent  men  of  their  day ;  and  that  he  acquitted  himself  in  a  manner 
liighly  creditable  to  his  talents  may  be  gathered  from  the  testimony  of 
learned  contemporaries. 


WALTONIAN  REMINISCENCES.  413 

however  much  I  may  be  disposed  to  laud  the  splen- 
did talents  and  great  attainments  of  my  venerated 
friend.  Antiquity  is  a  study,  methinks,  that  was 
not  so  well  suited  to  his  taste  as  the  description  of 
Nature  in  her  quiet  peaceful  vales,  where  wild 
flowers  bloom,  birds  carol  their  sweet  notes,  clear 
brooks  meander,  and  fishes  leap  for  joy. 

Tyro.  Pardon  me  there,  Piscator,  but  I  judge  that 
honest  old  Izaak,  like  his  pupil,  felt  more  pleasure  in 
hooking  a  fish  than  in  seeing  one  leap  for  joy. 

Piscator.  I  know,  boy,  thou  art  fond  of  raillery  on 
this  head,  and  I  forgive  thee ;  though  I  doubt  not 
that  if  the  ghost  of  Izaak  Walton  were  to  appear  be- 
fore thee,  he  would  prove,  to  thy  confusion,  that  our 
favourite  diversion  is  a  merciful  method  of  thinning 
the  over-teeming  rivers,  and  not  a  cruel  sport,  as 
some  blasphemously  pronounce  it  to  be  ;  nay,  that 
Angling  is  as  pleasant  a  pastime  for  the  fish  as  for 
the  fisherman .  Thou  must  have  seen,  by  his  book,  that 
he  loathed  all  barbarous  amusement ;  but,  as  for  Ang- 
ling, he  urges  divers  unanswerable  arguments  in  fa- 
vour of  its  practice,  observing  that  many  of  the  pa- 
triarchs and  prophets  of  old  were  fishers,  as  were  also 
four  of  Christ's  apostles  ;  and,  besides  enumerating 


414  death's  doings. 

many  pious  men  of  later  times  who  lived  virtuous  and 
temperate  lives  and  delighted  in  Angling,  he  referreth 
to  profane  history  as  well,  and  shows  that  the  greatest 
of  men — aye,  and  women  too — recreated  themselves 
with  the  sport  of  fishing:  there  were  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  and 

Socius.  Enough — proof  enough,  in  all  conscience  ! 
— isn't  it,  Tyro?  That  jade  Cleopatra  was  a  queen 
of  fishers,  and  well  knew  how  to  bait  her  hook, — eh, 
boy  I 

Tyro.  Aye,  marry,  did  she  ;  and,  if  I  mistake  not, 
your  female  Anglers,  now-a-days,  understand  the  art 
of  catching  gudgeons  quite  as  well  as  Egypt's  volup- 
tuous queen  did. 

Piscator.  Experientia  docet — doth  it  not.  Tyro  ? 
I  verily  think  the  cherry-cheeked  daughter  of  our 
hostess  hath  got  thee  at  the  end  of  her  line. 

Tyro.  Expert  as  thou  art,  Piscator,  at  catching 
fish,  thou  Avilt  not  catch  me.  I  pray  ye  remember. 
Master,  that  I  was  brought  up  at  Wykeham's  Col- 
lege, and  the  first  lesson  they  teach  us  there  is  to  tell 
no  tales  out  of  school.     Still  I  hope  thou  wilt  allow 


WALTONIAN  REMINISCENCES.  415 

that  a  man  may  be  a  true  Lover,  though  he  be  but  a 
sorry  Angler. 

Piscator.  It  would  be  bad  indeed  for  the  softer  sex. 
Tyro,  if  it  were  otherwise ;  and  I  frankly  own  that 
I  commend  thy  silence  in  a  matter  so  delicate;  but, 
for  true  love's  sake,  thou  shalt  indulge  us  with  a 
love-song. 

Tyro.  Well,  if  you  will  have  it  so,  I  will  make  an 
attempt ;  and  if  I  fail  therein,  let  my  want  of  prac- 
tice be  an  excuse  for  my  inability  :  but — 

Socius.  No  bids,  Tyro,  but  the  song ; — come,  boy, 
give  us  thy  love-song,  without  a  prologue. 

TYRO'S  SONG,  entitled  SLY  CUPID. 

Though  Huntsmen  may  siny  of  the  joys  of  the  chase, 

A7id  Anglers,  of  line,  hook,  and  rod. 
The  joy  of  all  joys,  which  to  none  can  give  place, 

Springs  from  Cupid — sly  Cupid  the  god — 
Whose  bundle  of  arrows  and  neat  little  bow, 

Which  so  carelessly  hang  by  his  side. 
Are  far  more  effective  than  Dian's,  I  trow, 
When  properly  they  are  applied : 

O  Cupid,  thou  dear  little  god! 


41G  death's  doings. 

Though  Soldiers  may  boast  of  their  glorious  scars, 

Til  wager,  though  you  think  it  odd, 
That  many  more  ivounds  than  are  given  by  Mars, 

Come  from  Cupid — sly  Cupid  the  god — 
Whose  bundle  of  arroivs  and  neat  little  bow. 

Which  so  carelessly  hang  by  his  side, 
Are  more  than  a  match  for  all  weapons  beloiv, 
When  properly  they  are  applied: 

O  Cupid,  thou  dear  little  god  ! 

Though  the  sons  of  gay  Bacchus  take  pleasure  in  wine — 

Til  swear,  when  they  stagger  and  nod. 
Their  pleasures  arc  painful ;  but  pleasures  divine 

Spring  from  Cupid — sly  Cupid  the  god — 
Whose  bundle  of  arrows  and  neat  little  bow, 

Which  so  carelessly  hang  by  his  side, 
Give  exquisite  pleasure,  as  all  of  us  know. 

When  properly  they  are  applied. 

O  Cupid,  thou  dear  little  god  ! 

Piscator.  Thanks,  Tyro,  thanks.  Here's  to  thee 
and  thy  song.  And  now,  methinks  it  is  high  time  to 
depart :  so  step  out,  and,  as  thou  art  purse-bearer 
to-day,  pay  our  good  hostess  her  charge  for  this  en- 
tertainment ;  and,  hark  ye.  Tyro,  when  thou  givest 
her  daughter  (as  I  guess  thou  dost  intend  to  do)  a 
parting  ki^^,  don't  whisper  in  her  ear  too  much 
about  "  sly  Cupid." 

Tyro.  I  shall  not  come  to  thy  confessional.  Mas- 
ter, if  I  do ;  but — verbum  sap.  [Exit. 


WALTONJAN  REMINISCENCES.  417 

Scene  III. —  Tlie  Road  leading  to  Winchester. 

iSocius.  How  calm  and  refreshing  is  the  air  !  See, 
Piscator,  how  beautifully  the  golden  rays  of  the  set- 
ting sun  are  reilected  against  the  numerous  windows 
of  yon  noble  pile  !  Alas,  old  Winchester! — once  fa- 
voured city  of  the  west,  how  are  thy  glories  vanished ! 
it  seemeth  that  the  hand  of  Fate  is  against  thee,  and 
that  thou  never,  never  shalt  revive. 

Piscator,  And  dost  thou  really  think,  Socius,  that 
this  ought  to  be  a  cause  for  regret  ?  What,  if  the 
unfinished  palace  of  Charles  the  Second  frown  in  so- 
litary state,  and  the  ruins  of  Wolvesey  show  marks 
of  desolation,  are  we  not  exempt  from  the  vices 
which  congregate  in  a  metropolis  ?  If  the  surround- 
ing country  were  enclosed  for  the  convenience  and 
private  enjoyment  of  royalty  and  royal  retainers, — in 
the  name  of  goodness,  would  not  our  purling  streams 
and  verdant  meadows  have  been  shut  out  from  us  1 
Think  of  that,  Socius — think  of  that,  as  my  dear 
friend  Walton  would  say,  "  with  tears  of  gratitude 
in  thy  eyes." 

Socius.  True,  true ;  yet  I  cannot  regard  its  former 
magnificence  without  something  like  a  feeling  of  re- 


418  death's  doings. 

gret ;  but  I  own  thou  art  more  of  a  philosopher,  and 
vievvest  things  as  they  ought  to  be  viewed— closely 
and  justly.  Still  when  I  consider  that  even  in  the 
time  of  tiie  Celtic  Britons  "  the  White  City,"  (for 
such  was  the  name  they  gave  to  Winchester,  from 
the  chalky  cliffs  which  overhang  and  surround  it) 
was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  places  in  this  island ; 
and  that  afterwards,  under  the  dominion  of  its  va- 
rious conquerors,  the  Belgae,  the  Romans,  and  the 
Saxons,  it  was  the  seat  of  power ;  nay,  that  even 
some  three  or  four  centuries  ago,  it  was  the  capital 
of  the  kingdom, — thou  must  not  wonder  that  a  love 
for  the  antique  and  romantic  will  occasionally  beget 
a  sigh,  as  my  mind  retrospectively  glanceth  at  the 
by-gone  glories  of  my  native  town. 

Piscator.  Believe  me,  I  can  more  than  pardon  thy 
feelings ;  I  respect  them,  though  I  feel  not  like  thee. 
— But  see,  how  Tyro  lags  behind.  The  lad,  I  war- 
rant, is  musing  on  the  red  lips  and  sloe-black  eyes 
of  that  pretty  wench  at  the  Dolphin.  I'faith  !  now  I 
look  again,  I  see  that,  as  he  walks  along,  he  is 
writing :  'tis  some  love  epistle,  or  a  new  copy  of 
verses,  mayhap,  about  the  bow  and  arrows. — Tyro  ! 
slow-footed  Tyro,  what  engageth  thy  attention  so 
deeply  ?     Come  hither,  man. 


WALTONIAN  REMINISCENCES.  419 

Tyro.  I  crave  your  pardon,  my  good  Masters,  for 
my  tardy  pace  ;  but  I  will  presently  overtake  you. 

Socius.  He  hastens  towards  us.  Now,  Tyro,  tell 
us  with  candour,  what  thou  hast  been  employed 
about  so  busily. 

Tyro.  Truly,  I  have  been  thinking  so  much  of  the 
pleasant  discourse  we  have  had  this  afternoon — am 
so  much  in  love  with  an  Angler's  life — and  withal  so 
highly  esteem  the  memory  of  Piscator's  early  friend 
and  monitor,  that,  as  I  walked  along,  I  have  been 
tempted  to  tack  together  a  few  lines  in  verse  re- 
specting him. 

Piscator.  Thy  labour  I  regard  as  a  compliment 
paid  to  myself;  and  I  trust  thou  wilt  not  only  read 
what  thou  hast  written,  but  give  thy  manuscript  to 
me.  I  rejoice,  too,  to  hear  thee  express  thy  love  for 
an  Angler's  life.  O,  who  would  not  be  an  honest 
Angler !  "  Let  me  tell  you,"  as  my  ever-dear  Izaak 
expresseth  himself,  "  there  be  many  who  have  forty 
times  our  estates,  that  would  give  the  greatest  part 
of  it  to  be  healthful  and  cheerful  like  us ;  who  with 
the  expense  of  a  little  money  have  eat  and  drank,  and 
laughed,  and  angled,  and  sung,  and  slept  securely ; 

2  E 


420  death's  doings. 

and  rose  next  day,  and  cast  away  care,  and  sung, 
and  laughed,  and  angled  again,  which  are  blessings 
rich  men  cannot  purchase  with  all  their  money." 

Tyro.  And  if  I  remember  rightly,  he  further  saith, 
"  We  see  but  the  outside  of  the  rich  man's  happiness : 
few  consider  him  to  be  like  the  silkworm,  that,  when 
she  seems  to  play,  is,  at  the  very  same  time,  spin- 
ning her  own  bowels,  and  consuming  herself." 

Sociiis.  Dip  where  we  will,  the  page  of  Izaak 
Walton  ever  instructeth— ever  delighteth.  But — 
read  thy  lines ;  for  see,  we  have  nearly  reached 
King's-gate,  and  thou  knowest  that  Piscator  must 
leave  us  not  many  yards  from  that  spot. 

Piscator.  Aye,  boy ;  read,  read.  If  an  Angler's 
stock  of  patience  could  be  exhausted,  I  declare  this 
delay  would  be  the  sure  means  of  exhausting  it. 

Socius.  For  patience'  sake,  then,  read. 

Tyro.  Before  I  begin,  Piscator,  I  should  tell  thee 
it  is  in  the  form  of  an  Epitaph  on  thy  friend ;  for 
though  I  know  thou  wouldst  say  it  were  sacrilege  to 
displace  that  which  the  younger  Izaak  caused  to  be 
raised  in  the  Cathedral  to  his  beloved  father's  me- 


WALTONIAN  REMINISCENCES.  421 

mory,  yet  I  have  often  heard  both  thee  and  Socius 
lament  that  the  tablet  did  not  more  fully  paint 
his  life  and  matchless  character.  What  they  were 
I  have  learned  from  thee  :  therefore  think  me  not 
presumptuous,  I  beseech  thee,  in  having  attempted 
to  describe  one  whose  virtues  I  fain  would  imitate, 
though  to  do  that  effectually  would,  I  know,  re- 
quire far  more  fortitude,  meekness,  piety,  and  self- 
denial,  than  generally  fall  to  the  lot  of  man. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  IZAAK  WALTON. 

Stay,  Readei',  stay  !  and  let  the  pious  tear 
Attest  thy  love  for  him  ivho  sleepeth  here  : 
Tis  IZAAK  WALTON!— "  honest  Izdidik''  hiyht— 
He  who  in  Angling  took  such  rare  delight ; 
He  who,  when  musing  by  the  silent  brook, 
Equipt  with  angle-rod,  icith  line,  and  hook, 
E^er  studied  Nature  from  her  living  book ; 
Her  laws  he  loc'd — for  Nat%irc''s  laws  are  mild — 
And  Nature  owri'd  him  as  her  fav'rite  child. 
Calm  was  his  life  and  like  a  river  clear; 
His  heart  was  manly,  open,  and  sincere ; 
Of  peaceful  habits  he,  of  holy  mind, 
Of  cheerful  converse,  of  affections  kind; 
Of  ready  ivit,  biit  void  of  all  offence ; 
Of  simple  manners,  but  of  sterling  sense  ; 
Though  frugal,  lib'ral — gen'rous  too,  but  just — 
Possessed  of  virtues,  as  it  were,  in  trust 
To  use  them  for  the  benefit  of  otiiers, — 
F<yr  all  mankind  to  IzAAK  were  as  brothers. 

2  i:2 


422  death's  doings. 

Piscator.  I  thank  thee,  Tyro.  Those  lines  thou 
must  give  to  me ;  and  I  promise  thee  that,  for 
Tzaak's  sake  and  thine,  I  will  carefully  preserve 
them.  And  now,  my  kind  friends,  we  are  come  to 
the  very  spot  where,  to  seek  our  several  homes,  we 
must  part.     Good  night ;  and  God  be  with  you  both ! 

Socius.  And  so  say  I. 

Tyro.  And  I.     Good  night ! 

S.  M. 


Walton  was  buried,  according  to  his  own  request,  in  the  most 
unostentatious  manner  possible.  He  lies  in  Prior  Silksteed's  Chapel, 
in  Winchester  Cathedral,  and  the  grave-stone  which  covers  his  re- 
mains has  the  following  inscription : — 

Herb  resteth  the  body  of 

M"^    ISAAC    WALTON, 

u 
who  dyed  the  15  of  DECEMBER 

1683. 

Alas  !   hee's  gone  before, 
Gone  to  returne  noe  more  / 
Our  panting  Breasts  aspire 
After  their  aged  Sire 
Whose  wellspent  life  did  last 
Full  ninety  years  and  past, 
But  now  he  hath  begun 
That  which  will  ne're  be  done, 
Crowned  with  eternall  blisse. 
We  wish  our  Souls  with  his. 

Votis  modestis  sic  Jkrunt  liberi. 


423 


DEATH,  THE  SAGE,  AND  THE  FOOL. 


I. 

Hence    with    thy   rhapsodies  —  the    world  —  the 
world ! — 
Wends    on  his   reckless   course   the  gay  —  the 
young— 
Where  Fashion  hath  her  gonfalon  unfurled. 

And  Beauty's  Circe-lips  have  loudest  sung ! 
What,  though  the  roses  which  fond  childhood  flung 
O'er  his  calm  breast,  are  scorch'd  by  Passion's 
flame. 
And  all  is  desolate  where  they  blushing  sprung; — 
He  seeks  enjoyment,  and  loud  laughs  at  fame, — 
He  gains  it — ^bitter  gain :  a  mockery — but  a  name  ! 

n. 

Yet,  though— albeit,  in  his  wild  career. 
He  join  in  midnight  dance  and  revelry, — 

And  doth,  like  tipsy  pilot,  madly  steer 

His  reeling  bark  through  Passion's  ruthless  sea, — 


424  death's  doings. 

Uncheer'd,  unlustred  by  bright  Beauty's  eye. 

Long  wont  to  shine,  and  kindly  guidance  give — 
(A  constant  cynosure  from  laughing  sky). 

Yet  hath  been  his  to  some  (sad)  purpose  live. 
And  have  a  goal  in  life,  though  not  a  name  survive  ! 

III. 

But  'tis  not  thus  with  cold  and  cloistered  Sage, 

Wasting  in  calculating  dreams  his  day  ; 
Till  his  shorn  temples  are  besprent  by  age. 

And  manhood's  sunshine  yields  to  evening  gray  ! 
One  constant  task  his  rolling  years  display, — 

His  task  of  visioned  mystics ;  whilome  health 
Fades  like  a  morning  mist  away — away, — 

And    grim    Death    stalks    with    solemn-pacing 
stealth. 
To   mar   his   full-blown    hopes, — his    heart's    long- 
hoarded  wealth ! 

IV. 

Then — then  what  boots  the  philosophic  fire. 
That  lit  the  sacred  mansion  of  his  breast? 

Freedom  from  Passion's  thrall  and  young  Desire, — 
And  stern  rebuke  of  Beauty's  soft  behest. 

Sighing  and  pining  to  be  fond  carest  ? 
Hath  he  enjoyed  the  loveliness  of  life. 


DEATH,  THE  SAGE,  AND  THE  POOL.     425 

Alone  by  Reason's  Prosper-wand  confess'd  ? 
Alas  !  his  feverish  dreams  and  visions  rife 
Have  mildewed  judgment, — thought, — though  far  re- 
moved from  strife, 

V. 
Land  of  the  storied  brave, — though  now  the  tread 

Of  the  dull  slave  unechoed  walk  the  ground. 
Yet,  glorious  land,  thine — thine  the  learned  dead ! 

There  his  wise  saws  the  Citian*  sage  around 
To  wondering  crowds   proclaimed  ;    there — there 
was  found 
The  heaven-blest  doctor  of  the  Academe ; 
Thence  the  Aristotelian  thunder's  sound 
Issued,  and  glow'd  the  philosophic  beam ; 
Yet  light-sped  it  has  pass'd,  and  all  is  but  a  dream  ! 

VI. 

Death  and  obstruction  f  now  their  empire  hold 
Where  once  was  angry  jar  and  hot  dispute ; 

Fame,  that  would  aye  their  endless  praise  have 
told! 
Hath  silenced  now  her  hoarse  unheeded  suit 


*  Zeno,  the  stoic. 

t  "  To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot." — Shakspeare. 


4:26  death's  doings. 

To  hard  posterity  ; — and  all  is  mute, 

Save  the  loud  jibes  of  envious  Mockery's  tongue. 
Such  is  of  earthly  Worth  the  bitter  fruit ; 

While  o'er  its  tomb  her  scornful  laugh  hath  rung. 
When  pointing  at  the  'scutcheon  Age  would   high 
have  hung! 

VII. 

And  thy  lot,  wisdom-scoffer,  is  the  same. 

Though  mock'st  thou  Cynic  tub  and  Stoic  school ! 
Yea,  Folly  ne'er  will  fail  her  own  to  claim, — 

Her  mark  denounces  thee,  cold  heartless  fool. 
For  wasting  life  without  design  or  rule  ! 

Oh,  foolishness !  to  gaze  upon  the  land. 
And  idly  deem  Creation  but  the  tool 

To  feed  thy  sluggishness  with  impious  hand — 
And,  for   thee,   wonders  work,   as  erst   on   Egypt's 
strand ! 

VIII. 

Enthusiast — impious  boaster, — think'st  the  earth 
In  gladness  yields  to  summer's  hot  embrace. 

Only  to  lengthen  thy  impassioned  mirth ; 
So  thou,  exalted  in  thy  pride  of  place. 

Deem  thyself  only  favoured  of  thy  race  ? 
The  while,  to  waste  is  thine  sole  idle  care. 


DEATH,  THE  SAGE,  AMD  THE  FOOL.     427 

In  bubbled  fancies,  youth  and  manhood's  grace ; 
And,  having  dreamt  of  pleasure — new,  bright, 
fair. 
In  rapture  wild  thou  snatchest, — and  Death's  hand 
is  there  ! 

IX. 

Bold    madman — fool,  —  save    bauble,    crest,   and 
bell! 
Nurtured  hadst  thou  that  seed  kind  Heaven  hath 
sown 
Within  thy  bosom, — and  who — who  shall  tell 
But  it  to  glowing  vigour  might  have  grown. 
And  yielded  richer  fruit  than  e'er  hath  blown 

Within  the  Hesperian  dragon-warded  meads? 
But  years  on  swallow-wings  have  rapid  flown. 
Whilst  thou  art  yet  to  learn  that  there  must 
needs. 
To  immortalize  thy  name,  be  bright  immortal  deeds ! 

X. 

Read  ye  the  page  of  history  :  Greece  had  sons 
Such  as  have  never  lived  in  other  land  ! 

Think  ye  the  glory  which  through  ages  runs 
In  loud  acclaim  of  that  most  glorious  band. 

Who  scorn'd  to  yield,  and  died  with  glaive  in  hand. 


428  death's  doings. 

Was  but  the  work  of  chance  ? — No  ;  Spartan 
laws. 
Which  they  were  taught  full  well  to  understand, 
And  Lacedemonian  discipline — ^the  cause  ! 
Persuasion  only  from  his  cell  Perfection  draws. 

XI. 

'Tis  not  for  all,  with  honied  words,  to  lull 

The  storm-urged  fury  of  the  vulgar  crew, — 
Nor   Nature's    gems  from    their    dark   mines   to 
cull, — 

Nor  drink  at  Inspiration's  fount,  where  few 
Quaffed,  and  of  old  poetic  phrensy  drew  ! 

'Tis  not  the  child's  from  cradle  forth  to  move, 
Prankt  in  the  array  of  grace  and  wisdom  true. 

Like  Pallas  springing  from  the  head  of  Jove, 
Clad  in  the  dazzling  panoply  of  Heaven  above  ! 

XII. 

Yet   on,    o'er   spring-flowered   earth,    o'er   wintry 
seas. 
Reckless  ye  haste,  with  never-tarrying  speed. 
Clouded  by  Folly's  thousand  fantasies ; — 

Shadows  your  aim,^ — and  Death  the  well-earned 
meed! 
On — on  ye  pass, — and  thousands  quick  succeed  ! 


DEATH,  THE  SAGE,  AND  THE  FOOL.     429 

Such  is  the  scope  of  human  joys  and  fears ! 
Thrice  blest  in  hope,  and  trebly  cursed  in  deed  ! 
Ye  clutch  the  bow  that  high  in  Heaven  appears. 
As  though  some  new  delight, — ye  clutch   a  bow  of 
tears  ! 

Randolph  Fitz-Eustace. 


430 


TO    DEATH. 


SONNET  I. 


Lord  of  the  silent  tomb  !  relentless  Death  ! 
Fierce  victor  and  destroyer  of  the  world  ! 
How  stern  thy  power  !    The  shafts  of  fate  are  hurled 
By  thine  unerring  arm  ; — and  swift  as  breath 
Fades  from  the  burnished  mirror, — as  the  wreath 
Of  flaky  smoke,  from  cottage  roofs  upcurled. 
Melts  in  cerulean  air, — as  sear  leaves  whirled 
Along  autumnal  streams, — as  o'er  the  heath 
The  forms  of  twilight  vanish — so  depart. 
Nor  leave  a  trace  of  their  oblivious  way. 
The  meteor-dreams  of  man  !     Awhile  the  heart 
Of  eager  Folly  swells — his  bubbles  gay 
Float  on  the  passing  breeze, — but  ah  !  thy  dart 
Soon  breaks  each  glittering  spell  of  Life's  delusive 
day! 

D.  L.  R. 


SONNETS  TO  DEATH.  431 


SONNET  II. 


Insatiate  fiend !  at  thy  blood-dropping  shrine 

In  vain  unnumbered  victims  wait  thy  will ; 

The  life-streams  of  the  earth  thy  thirst  of  ill 

Shall  never  quench,  till  that  bright  morning  shine 

That  bursts  the  sleep  of  ages.     All  repine 

At  thy  severe  decrees;— and  thy  terrors  thrill 

The  hero  and  the  sage,  though  pride  may  still 

The  voice  that  would  reveal  them.     Hopes  divine, 

Of  Faith  and  Virtue  born,  alone  may  cheer 

Mortality's  inevitable  hour. 

Nor  phrensied  prayer,  nor  agonizing  tear. 

May  check  thine  arm,  or  mitigate  thy  power. 

Ruin's  resistless  sceptre  is  thy  dower. 

Thy  throne,  a  world — thy  couch.  Creation's  bier  ! 

D.  L.  R. 


432 


THE  SAGE  AND  THE  FOOL. 


"  The  air  hath  bubbles  as  the  water  hath, 
*     *     *     *     and  do  but  blow  them  to  their  trials,  the  bub- 
bles are  out,"  Shakspeare. 
"  How  he  marks  his  way 
With  dreadful  waste  of  what  deserves  to  shine ! 
Art,  genius,  fortune,  elevated  power, — 

With  various  lustres  these  light  up  the  world. 
Which  Death  puts  out,  and  darkens  human  race." —  Young. 


Wh  en  this  globe  of  the  earth 

First  sprang  into  birth. 
And  man  on  its  surface  'gan  crawl, 

'Twas  knowledge  he  sought, — 

But  a  bubble  he  caught. 
And  gave  for  an  apple  his  all. 

-•» 
And  we  hear,  too,  beside, 

That  the  bubble  of  pride 

Drove  a  host  of  the  angels  from  Heaven ; 
Is  it,  then,  such  a  wonder 
That  mortals  should  blunder. 

And  break  the  command  that  was  given  ? 


THE  SAGE  AND  THE  FOOL.  433 

So,  ever  since  then, 

'Tis  the  practice  of  men 
To  shape  all  their  courses  in  trouble ; 

Yet  in  colours  so  bright. 

That  they  dazzle  the  sight. 
But  end,  like  their  hopes,  in  a  bubble. 

Thus,  ambition  and  fame. 

While  they  glitter  in  name. 
And  show  in  the  prospect  so  fair  ; 

Yet,  ere  hold  you  can  takie. 

The  gay  phantoms  break. 
Or  vanish,  like  bubbles,  in  air. 

Even  friendship  and  love. 

Like  stars  from  above, 
That  brighten  our  paths  as  we  go. 

Too  often  we  find 

Of  the  same  brittle  kind, — 
As  bubbles  in  colour  and  show. 

Then  the  fool  and  the  sage. 

In  every  age. 
Lift  their  schemes  into  life  with  a  breath ; 

Or  of  science  or  wealth. 

They  escape  as  by  stealth. 
Or  are  presently  put  out  by  Death. 


434 


THE 


FOOL  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER. 


A  VISION. 


It  was  a  delightful  evening  in  the  middle  of  Au- 
gust :  the  sun,  shorn  of  his  beams  and  like  a  vast 
globe  of  fire,  majestically  descending,  spread  a  warm 
and  mellow  lustre  over  the  western  sky  ;  and,  fring- 
ing with  gold  the  edges  of  the  wavy  lines  of  purple 
clouds,  which  stretched  athwart  the  azure  concave, 
produced  one  of  those  rich  effects,  which  defies  the 
pencil  of  the  artist,  and  captivates  the  mind  with 
pleasing  wonderment.  All  was  calmness  around ; 
even  the  pendent  birches  on  the  craggy  face  of  Ben 
Ain  were  moveless  ;  not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  ;  and 
but  for  the  gurgle  of  the  mountain  streams,  and  the 
rush  of  a  large  cascade,  close  to  the  little  inn  of 
the  Trosacks,  at  the  window  of  which  I  was  seated, 
the  stillness  would  have  been  profound  and  most 
impressive.  I  had  been  perusing  a  few  pages  of 
Pierce  Plowman ;  and  had  just  rested  the  book  on 
my  knee,  to  admire  the  magnificent  scene  which  lay 


THE  FOOL  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER.  435 

before  me  :  every  swelling  knoll  and  abrupt  crag  on 
the  huge  back  of  Ben  Venue,  and  all  the  feathery 
crest  of  the  leafy  garniture  of  the  Trosacks  brightly 
illuminated  by  the  declining  beam,  softened  off  and 
lost  in  the  deep  purple  shadows  of  the  glens  and 
hollows.  As  I  gazed,  the  last  segment  of  the  solar 
disk  sunk  behind  the  mountain,  blending  the  dis- 
tance of  the  landscape  in  one  deep  mass  of  shade, 
but  marking  more  strongly  the  grand  outline  of  Ben 
Venue  and  his  stupendous  congeners ;  strikingly  dis- 
playing the  superior  sublimity  of  scenery  still  bear- 
ing the  impress  of  the  finger  of  Nature  over  the 
proudest  efforts  of  aspiring  mortals.  Full  of  the 
romantic; — the  place,  the  hour,  the  monotonous 
sound  of  the  neighbouring  waterfall,  and  the  univer- 
sal stillness  which  prevailed,  threw  me  into  a  re- 
verie which,  gradually  settling  into  sleep,  produced 
the  following  dream. 

The  scene  upon  which  I  had  been  gazing,  and 
which  had  laid  such  hold  upon  my  imagination  as 
to  continue  present  to  my  mind  for  some  time  after 
I  was  asleep,  suddenly  disappeared,  and  changed  to 
a  valley  of  most  singular  aspect.  Although  of  vast 
extent,  yet  it  was  enclosed,  on  every  side,  by  stu- 
pendous mountains,  the  rugged  and  hoary  summits 

2f 


436  death's  doings. 

of  which  seemed  to  pierce  the  sky.  Within  these, 
rose  inferior  hills  of  the  most  diversified  forms  and 
character;  some  rocky  and  naked;  others  clothed 
with  verdure  to  their  summits,  or  bearing  on  their 
sides  ample  forests,  through  which  projected  rocks 
with  the  richest  garniture  of  brown  and  purple  heath 
cushioning  every  shelf  and  crevice,  and  mixed  with 
the  most  luxuriant  and  varied  foliage.  Between 
these  hills,  lay  gardens  and  orchards  rich  with  every 
description  of  fruit ;  and  watered  by  streams  which 
the  eye  traced  on  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  dash- 
ing from  precipice  to  precipice  and  forming  chains 
of  cascades,  till,  brawling  along  their  channels  in  the 
valley  and  meandering  in  a  thousand  directions,  they 
peacefully  mingled  their  waters  in  a  lake,  which 
spread  its  ample  mirror  at  the  base  of  the  mountains. 
As  I  looked  upon  the  scene,  it  seemed  continually 
changing.  At  one  time,  the  valley  resounded  with 
the  notes  of  the  feathered  choristers  ;  at  another  the 
growl  of  the  storm  redoubled  its  peals  among  the 
echoing  rocks.  Sometimes,  embowered  among  the 
trees,  appeared  the  village  with  its  simple  pointed 
spire ; — whilst  I  gazed,  it  became  a  magnificent  city 
with  crowded  streets,  porticos,  splendid  palaces, 
and  venerable  fanes.  Now  a  gaudy  procession  of 
princes  and  priests  and  knights  and  ladies  would 


THE  FOOL  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER.  437 

seem  to  issue  from  its  gates ;  and  sports  and  tourna- 
ments were  held.     I  looked  again,  and  anon  a  real 
battle  raged  beneath  its   walls.     The  opposing  ar- 
mies, the  charges  of  the  chivalry,  the  smoke,  the  re- 
treat,  the  pursuit  were   all  visible.     I  could  even 
fancy  I  heard  the  clamour  of  the  fray,  the  shouts  of 
the   victorious  and  the  groans  of  the  vanquished ; 
when,  suddenly,  not  a  trace  remained  of  the  city, 
the   processions,    the  combatants ;    all   had  passed 
away,  and  given  place  to  some  other  illusion.     As  I 
turned  my  eyes  towards  the  lake,  it  would  sometimes 
appear  expanded  to  an  ocean  bearing  on  it  navies. 
At  one  moment,  the  sun  shining   upon  the  white, 
swelling  sail,  the  gallant  ship  danced  gaily  on  the 
lightly  rippled  bosom  of  the  deep ;  at  another,  the 
congregated  clouds  freighted  with  storm,  seemed  to 
mingle  with  the  waves,  and  pouring  their  fury  upon 
the  flexile  element,  the  vessel  struck  upon  a  rock  and 
split  into   a  thousand  pieces.     The  shrieks  of  the 
drowning  mariners  reached  my  ears ;    I  saw  them 
struggling  with  the  waves  and  dashed  to  death  upon 
the  rocks,  over  which  the  boiling  breakers  roared  : 
the   sight  was  too   horrific  :    I  hid  my  face  in  my 
hands;  and,  when  I  removed  them,  lo!    again  the 
placid  lake,  reflecting  the  downward  mountains,  the 
hills  and  all  their  leafy  tracery  spread  before  ray  eyes 

2  f2 


438  death's  doings. 

Astonished  and  bewildered  with  what  I  had  seen, 
I  looked  in  vain  for  some  one  to  solve  the  mystery ; 
for  although  the  valley  seemed  crowded  with  moving 
objects,  apparently  men  and  women  occupied  in 
every  possible  manner,  yet,  as  I  approached  them, 
they  instantly  vanished ;  like  a  picture  in  a  Camera 
Obscura,  all  seemed  natural  and  animated,  yet  no- 
thing was  tangible.  "  This  is  surely  the  Valley  of 
Deception,"  exclaimed  I,  thinking  audibly :  "  no- 
thing is  what  it  appears  to  be."  "  It  is  then  a  true 
picture  of  the  world,"  whispered  a  voice  behind  me, 
"  turn  and  see."  I  turned  and  beheld,  on  a  little 
elevation,  at  the  distance  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet 
from  me,  two  individuals  seated  at  the  base  of 
a  small  pyramid:  but  the  voice  did  not  proceed 
from  them,  for  it  again  uttered  behind  me,  "  advance 
and  satisfy  your  doubts ;"  whilst  at  the  same  mo- 
ment I  was  involuntarily  impelled  towards  the  pyra- 
mid. The  two  persons  seated  at  its  base  were  of  the 
most  opposite  characters.  One  of  them,  from  his 
motley  garb,  cap,  ears,  and  bells,  appeared  to  be  of 
that  class  of  knaves,  who  were  formerly  the  compa- 
nions of  kings  and  princes ;  and  who  enjoyed  the  sole 
privilege  of  speaking  truth  at  court ;  the  other 
seemed  from  his  habit  to  be  a  disciple  of  Zeno,  or  to 
belong  to  that  sect  of  philosophers,  which  the  Greeks 


THE  FOOL  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER.  439 

termed  Stoics :  both,  however,  were  engaged  in  the 
same  occupation, — blowing  soap-bubbles.  At  the 
foot  of  a  pedestal,  on  which  the  Fool  rested  his  arm, 
lay  a  bishop's  mitre,  an  open  music-book,  the  palette 
of  an  artist,  and  a  spear ;  the  Philosopher  rested  his 
elbow  upon  an  open  volume,  the  title  of  which  I 
perceived  was  "  Summum  bonum  Virtus;"  a  scroll 
covered  with  logical  aphorisms  lay  at  the  base  of  the 
pedestal,  and  a  celestial  globe  was  behind  it. 

I  stood  for  some  minutes  contemplating  both  of 
these  characters,  who  were  not,  in  any  degree,  dis- 
concerted at  my  approach.  "  There  goes  an  Em- 
peror," said  the  Fool,  as  he  threw  off  a  bubble  from 
the  bulb  of  his  pipe,  and  followed  its  course  in  the 
air  with  his  large  protruding  eyes.  "  See  how  his 
splendid  robe  glitters  in  the  sunbeam  !  Red,  orange, 
yellow,  green,  blue,  bright  as  the  irridescent  hues  of 
the  rainbow.  Hah  !  the  ambitious  dog ! — how  he 
mounts  above  his  fellows !  Now  he  has  topped  the 
summit  of  his  flight— there  !  there !  his  golden  dream 
is  over — his  budding  hopes  are  blasted — his  pride  for 
ever  humbled — the  bubble  is  burst ;  and  not  a  trace 
remains.  Hah,  ha,  ha!" — and  he  shook  his  head, 
jingling  te  sonorous  ornaments  of  his  cap ;  and, 
opening  his   capacious   mouth,    laughed    long   and 


440  death's  doings. 

loud.  Another  bubble  less  buoyant  was  thrown  oflF  as 
a  Philosopher.  "  There  he  goes,"  said  the  fool,  "  with 
a  drop  at  his  tail  to  demonstrate  the  effect  of  gravity : 
— see,  he  turns  like  a  whirling  dervise  ! — he  has,  cer- 
tainly, discovered  the  perpetual  motion  :  happy  soul ! 
the  world  will  now  be  blessed,  and  he  will  be  im- 
mortal.— Alas!  is  it  come  to  this?  To  fall  in  the 
moment  of  victory — to  sink  when  the  hand  already 
grasps  the  prize — but  so  it  is — gone  like  his  precur- 
sor, and  none  knows  whither."  Again  he  shouted 
with  joy ;  and  held  his  sides  with  laughter :  and  in 
this  manner  the  knave  apostrophized  each  bubble 
which  he  blew,  well  maintaining  the  credit  of  the  an- 
cient craft  of  which  he  seemed  the  worthy  represen- 
tative. 

It  was  in  vain  to  address  such  a  being,  and  there- 
fore I  turned  to  the  Philosopher,  who  at  that  instant 
had  thrown  off  a  bubble  from  the  point  of  a  quill, 
and  was  following  its  course,  with  a  look  of  intense 
interest,  as  it  floated  upon  the  breeze,  until  it  was 
lost  to  the  sight.  "  Mortal !"  said  he  as  he  turned 
towards  me  his  complacent  countenance,  "  Mortal ! 
I  already  read  your  thoughts.  Your  laudable  cu- 
riosity shall  be  satisfied : — sit  down  in  peace,  and 
listen  to  the  voice  of  truth."     I  sat  down,  and  he 


THE  FOOL  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER.  441 

thus  continued—"  Mortal !  the  valley  which  lies  be- 
fore you  is  a  typification  of  the  world.  Its  moun- 
tains and  rugged  rocks  represent  the  difficulties  and 
obstacles  which  beset  man  in  his  journey;  whilst 
they  are  also  the  true  causes  of  the  transitory  feli- 
city that  he  attains  on  earth ;  for  what  enjoyment 
does  he  possess  when  not  acquired  by  fatigue  and 
industry,  which  does  not  become  insipid  and  dis- 
tasteful? Ease  and  indolence  and  certain  security 
soon  pall  upon  the  mind,  which,  restless,  and  never 
satiated  with  toil,  rather  than  it  will  endure  the  tor- 
ment of  apathy,  courts  dangers  and  even  finds  a 
charm  in  Death.  Say — without  this  allurement, 
would  the  patriot  sacrifice  himself  for  the  interests 
of  his  country,  for  the  phantom  Fame  ?  Would  the 
hero  seek  the  bubble  Reputation  in  the  cannon's 
mouth  ?  Or  the  philosopher,  spurning  from  him  the 
enticements  of  Pleasure  and  heedless  of  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  life,  waste  the  midnight  oil  and  immure  him- 
self in  the  solitary  cell,  merely  to  be  assured  of  an 
immortal  fame  among  all  the  sons  of  men?  On  the 
other  hand,  mortal !  the  hills,  the  vales,  the  forests, 
gardens,  lakes,  and  streams  which  have  charmed 
your  sight,  demonstrate  the  benevolence  of  Nature, 
and  show  that  amidst  difficulties,  horrors,  changes, 
deceit,   and   wickedness,    the   world    supplies    the 


442  death's  doings. 

principles  of  harmony  and  proportion,  and  pro- 
duces true  felicity  as  the  result  of  their  conspiring 
order.  Man  alone  is  a  paradox,  and  yet  the  whole 
race  can  be  arranged  under  two  classes,  of  which 
you  behold  us  the  representatives,  the  wise  and  the 
foolish  ;  this  prolific  and  teeming  with  myriads  of 
every  country  and  kindred  ;  that  inrolling  a  very 
scanty  proportion  only  upon  its  list,  but  these  the 
true  intellectual  nobility  of  the  earth.  Like  this 
fool,  so  is  the  mass  of  mankind  occupied  with  the 
veriest  trifles  ;  their  projects  as  empty  and  as  fra- 
gile as  the  bubbles  which  he  commits  to  the  air, 
blown  only  to  be  broken.  They  laugh  at  the  idea 
of  making  man  happy  by  reason ;  contented  to  be- 
lieve that  their  senses  and  passions  were  bestowed 
only  to  be  gratified,  they  are  impatient  of  restraint 
and  are  convinced  that  the  only  road  to  happiness  is 
to  be  found  in  following  the  dictates  of  Nature. 
Hapless,  infatuated  beings !  who  have  brought  dis- 
ease into  the  world,  and  Iiave  yielded  to  Death  the 
empire  of  mortality  :  and  who  too  late  discover  that 
it  is  difficult  long  to  support  pleasure,  and  that  its 
invariable  termination  is  satiety  and  disgust. 

"  It  is  the  object  of  the  wise,  on  the  contrary,  to 
employ  the  senses  only  as  the  inlets  of  knowledge,  to 


THE  FOOL  AND  THE  PHILOSOPHER.  443 

cultivate  the  soil  which  Nature  has  planted  with 
every  material  for  the  exercise  of  industry,  and  to 
rein  the  passions  under  the  control  of  reason.  On 
these  grounds  I  have  founded  a  system  which  I  am 
about  to  propound  to  you  ;  which  will  banish  phy- 
sical evils  from  the  earth  and  confer  immortality 
upon  the  human  race.  This  pyramid  is  the  emblem 
of  my  theory  ;  its  broad  base  founded  upon  a  rock 
and  its  apex  pointing  to  the  heavens,  it  scorns  the 
rage  of  the  conflicting  elements,  and  even  defies  the 
overwhelming  power  of  Time." 

He  paused :  I  raised  my  eyes  to  inquire  the  cause 
of  the  interruption,  when  to  my  astonishment  I  per- 
ceived a  shadowy  figure  which  I  had  not  before 
observed,  seated  between  my  companions ;  grin- 
ning a  ghastly  look  of  contempt  upon  the  speaker, 
and  in  the  act  of  touching  both  the  sage  and  the  fool 
with  a  dart  tipped  with  fire,  which  he  grasped  in  his 
fleshless  hand.  The  eyeballs  of  the  Fool  seemed 
starting  from  their  sockets — his  face  was  turgid  and 
purple,  his  breath  gurgled  for  a  second  in  his  throat, 
and  after  a  convulsive  gasp,  he  fell  a  lifeless  mass  at 
the  foot  of  the  Destroyer.  The  Philosopher  lay  for 
a  few  minutes  as  in  a  faint,  his  jaw  fallen,  his  fea- 
tures  pale    and    shrunk,   and    his   eye   filmed ;    he 


444  death's  doings. 

fetched  a  deep   sigh,  and  seemed  to  revive;    then 
turning  his  languid  eye  upon  me,  the  placidity  of  his 
countenance  unaltered,  in  scarcely  audible  accents 
uttered  these  words — ''  Alas  !    fellow  mortal,  expe- 
rience only  can  teach  wisdom  :  it  has  convinced  me 
that  my  system  is  a  vain  hypothesis :  man  is  still  un- 
der the  dominion  of  Death:    but,  in  yielding  to  the 
tyrant,  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  the 
change  will  enable  me  to  solve  the  greatest  of  all  se- 
crets."   As   he    calmly  yielded  up   his  breath,  the 
ground  seemed  shaken  as  if  by  an  earthquake,  and 
the  pyramid  crumbled  into  dust.     Awe-struck  and 
trembling,  I  expected  to  be  involved  in  the  general 
ruin,  when  the  voice  which  I  had  before  heard  again 
addressed  me :  "  Mortal !    such  is  the  frailty  of  hu- 
manity— virtue   alone   can  render  life   happy:   but 
austerity  is   not  virtue ;   to   trifle   time  away  is  to 
waste  life — to  endeavour  to  reduce  life  to  exact  rule 
and  method  is  commonly  a  painful  task — oft,  also,  a 
fruitless  occupation.     While  we  are  reasoning  con- 
cerning life,  life  is  gone;  and  Death,  though  perhaps 
they  receive  him  differently,  yet  treats  alike  the  Fool 
and  the  Philosopher."* 

A.  T.  T. 

*  Hume's  Essays — The  Stoic. 


TUTTO 


PILOGFE, 


445 


THE  EPILOGUE, 

AND 

ADDRESS    RECAPITULATORY. 


Spofeen  fig  Seatft,  in  (SffSiratUt. 


Pray  don't  alarm  yourselves  ! — 'tis  only  I! 
Just  come  to  speak  the  Epilogue, — and  try 
To  make  my  bow,  for  once,  before  the  curtain — 
Behind  I've  play'd  an  active  part,  that's  certain : 
Aye,  aye — sharp  work  I've  had  of  late,  I  trow — 
Important  "  Doings,"  both  with  high  and  low  ; 
The  rich,  the  proud,  the  humble,  and  the  poor. 
The  learned  sage,  and  the  unletter'd  boor. 
Have  all  succumb'd — and  so  must  thousands  more. 
Why,  bless  me,  how  you  start !   how  pale  you  look ! 
You  tremble,  eh,  lest  you  be  "  brought  to  book  ?" 
Nay,  do  not  fear  !    I  now  come  but  to  speak, — 
Perhaps  on  business  I  may  call  next  week  : — 
Next  week's  too  soon,  you  say  ? — well,  then,  I'll  give 
A  further  respite,  if  you  needs  must  live 


446  death's  doings. 

A  little  longer  in  this  world  of  sorrow — 
But,  stay — I'll  think  again  of  this  to-morrow ; 
For  strange,   aye,  *'  passing  strange,"  it   doth  ap- 
pear, 
That  you,  so  often  as  you've  call'd  me  here. 
Should,  now  I'm  really  come,  shrink  back  thro'  fear. 
What  if  the  tragi-comedy  of  Life 
Be  ended,  with  its  ever-shifting  strife 
Of  pain  and  want,  of  trouble  and  alarm. 
Of  passion's  tumult — pleasure's  fitful  harm — 
Can  that  be  cause  for  grief — that  make  you  moan  ? 
Short-sighted  mortals  !  you  should  clap— woi  groan  ; 
Yes — were  you  wise,  my  presence  you  would  hail ; 
And  not,  like  dolts,  your  hapless  fate  bewail : 
Instead  of  sitting  there,  to  sob  and  sigh. 
Your  plaudits,  long  and  loud,  would  rend  the  sky. 
And  "  Bravo f  Death!  bravissimo!"  you'd  cry. 

I  know  that  all  some  "  grand  excuse"  may  plead. 
Some  worldly  reason,  or  some  urgent  need. 
For  tarrying  longer  on  this  earthly  ball : — 
Indeed,  there's  nothing  new  in  that,  at  all. 
One  has  not  yet  an  ample  fortune  made; 
Another  wishes  just  to  change  his  trade ; 
A  third  protests  his  death  is  not  expedient ; 
A  fourth  declares  the  time  is  inconvenient. — 


EPILOGUE.  447 

O  what  a  scene  of  shuflSing,  shifting,  shirking  ! 
What  paltry  lies— what  quibbling,  and  what  quirking  ! 

The  Soldier  hopes,  when  fools  and  tyrants  quarrel. 
To  grace  his  brows  with  never-fading  laurel ; 
And  begs  I'll  let  him  win  some  noble  prize. 
Before  he  sheathes  his  sword,  and  prostrate  lies. 
No,  madman !  thy  career  of  blood  is  o'er ; 
No  longer  shalt  thou  dip  thy  hands  in  gore. 
No  longer  fulminate  the  martial  thunder. 
Nor  glut  thyself  with  rapine,  blood,  and  plunder : 
List  to  the  Widow's  and  the  Orphan's  cry ! 
Thyself  prepare  !  for  Retribution's  nigh  ! 

With  many  an  artful  touch  of  special  pleading. 
The  Lawyer  comes ; — but  hopes  that,  through  good- 
breeding, 
I'll  "  do  the  civil  thing"  by  the  Profession, 
And  not  arrest  him  till  a  future  session. 
Bold  as  he  is  before  a  half-starv'd  client. 
To  me  he's  wondrous  mealy-mouth'd  and  pliant ; 
And,  oh !  what  lame  and  impotent  excuses. 
The  rogue  invents,  to  hide  his  vile  abuses! — 
All,  all  alike  are — full  of  contradictions, 
Pleas,  errors,  counterpleas,  demurrers,  fictions ! 
Ready,  most  ready  all,  to  "  make  averment," 
That  services  like  theirs,  should  meet  preferment; 


448  death's  doings. 

And  'twould  be  hard,  they  say, — oh,  very  hard. 
If  from  "  preferment"  they  should  be  debarr'd  : — 
Such  meek  and  gentle  lambs  !  so  wondrous  civil ! 
To  hurry  them  so  quickly  to  the  Devil ! — 
Sweet  babes  of  grace  !  it  matters  not  a  straw 
How  soon  the  Devil  on  you  claps  his  paw ; 
Have  you  he  will — he's  issued  your  subpoena — 
I  must  obey — and  will  not,  dare  not,  screen  ye  ; 
This  world  has  seen  too  much  of  you — so  go 
To  kindred  Demons  in  the  Courts  below! 

The  portly  Priest,  with  expectation  high. 
Entreats,  for  Virtue's  sake,  I'll  pass  him  by. 
Virtue  means  purity,  and  good  intention ; 
Now,  what  his  virtues  are,  perhaps  he'll  mention ; 
For  though,  on  duty  bent,  one  day  in  seven. 
He  proves  his  ow?i's  the  only  way  to  Heaven  ; 
Yet  such  the  force  of  carnal  appetite. 
That  "  loaves  and  fishes"  form  his  chief  delight. 
His  constant  thoughts  by  day,  his  dreams  by  night. 
But  hold — 'twere  well,  ere  we  proceed,  to  see 
What  arguments  support  *'  The  Pastor's  Plea" : — 
*'  To  mortals,  bending  'neath  the  cumbrous  load 
That  weighs  them  down,  he  shows  the  heavenly  road ; 
Without  his  aid,  their  feet  would  devious  stray. 
And  half  his  flock  would  go— <^6  other  way  /" — 


EPILOGUE.  449 

And  dost  thou  really  think,  my  reverend  wighty 
That  what  thou  say'st  is  rational  and  right  ? 
Dost  thou  the  will  of  God  presume  to  scan. 
And  dare  usurp  his  judgment-seat  1  vain  man ! 
Remember  what  thou  art — and  what  thou  know'st — 
And  thou  wilt  find  thy  knowledge  is,  at  most, 
A  cloud  of  error  and  an  empty  boast ! 
When  modes  of  faith  are  variously  profess'd. 
And  different  sects  are  found, — north,  east,  south, 

west — 
Who  shall  decide  which  wisest  is,  or  best  ? — 
Although  he  call  himself  a  true  believer, 
A  BIGOT  is,  at  best,  a  self-deceiver;* 
And  he  who  hopes  by  faith  alone  to  stand. 
Erects  a  tottering  column  on  the  sand. 
Be  just  and  liberal — to  your  country  true — 
High  Heav'n  revere — your  neighbour's  good  pursue  ; 
Let  virtue,  honour,  meekness,  fill  your  breast, 
And  to  Almighty  Goodness  leave  the  rest : — 
Do  this — and,  trust  me,  you  shall  find  the  way 
To  the  bright  regions  of  eternal  day  ! — 
Oh  !  if  the  path  that  leads  to  Heaven's  gate. 
Were  like  a  labyrinth,  dark  and  intricate, 

*  These  observations  have  reference  to  the  spiritual  teachers  of  no 
one  sect  in  particular,  but  are  intended  to  apply  to  all  who  are  so 
blind,  and  so  bigoted  to  their  own  tenets,  as  to  preach  up  the  absurd 
and  uncharitable  doctrine  of  exclusive  salvation. 


450  death's  doings. 

How  few,  how  very  few  would  enter  there! 
How  few  to  tread  the  mystic  path  would  dare ! 

Yon  Maiden,  peeping  through  her  ivory  fan. 
Would  fain  improve  her  mind,  by  studying  Man  ! 
While  that  spruce  Beau,  who  ogles  her,  declares. 
For  youth  and  beauty  I  should  not  lay  snares. 
Nor  interrupt  their  tender  sighs  and  kisses. 
But  give  them  time  t'  enjoy  connubial  blisses  ! — 
Now,  should  I  grant  these  turtles  their  request. 
Although  you'd  think  they  were  supremely  blest. 
Yet  such  would  be  the  bickerings  and  strife 
To  interrupt  that  blessed  state  of  life. 
That  'ere  twelve  months  had  o'er  the  couple  roll'd. 
He  would  a  tyrant  prove,  and  she  a  scold ; 
And  each  would  call  on  me,  by  day  and  night. 
To  come  and  take  the  other  one  away ! 

Don't  chuckle,  Sir !  the  time  is  well  nigh  come 
When  you'll  be  summon'd,  without  beat  of  drum. 
You  wish  to  live,  it  seems,  to  play  the  Rake, 
And  every  dastardly  advantage  take 
Of  unsuspecting  innocence  and  youth. 
In  spite  of  honour,  manliness,  and  truth. 
I  saw  you  throw  your  lure  for  yonder  beauty. 
And  try  to  wean  her  from  the  path  of  duty  ; 


EPILOGUE.  451 

And  yet,  a  wife  more  spotless  none  can  claim. 
Nor  one  more  kind,  than  she  who  bears  thy  name. 
Wretch  that  thou  art !  in  crime  and  folly  grey ! 
What !  wouldst  thou,  reckless,  rush  upon  thy  prey, 
And  from  an  aged  mother  take  her  stay? 
Rob  her  of  all  on  earth  that's  worth  possessing, 
And  make  a  curse  where  Nature  meant  a  Messing? 
Will  no  compunction  check  thy  fierce  desire  ? — 
None,  monster !  none  ? — then  I  must  quench  thy  fire. 
Know  then,  that  while  each  sense  is  wrapt  in  gloom. 
Disease  shall  bring  thee  to  a  cheerless  tomb  ; 
For  thee  to  Heaven  no  prayers  shall  ascend. 
And  thou,  despis'd,  shalt  die — without  a  friend  ! 

In  yonder  row  a  Widow  meets  my  view, — 
My  buxom  dame,  'tis  you  I  mean — yes,  you ! 
I  saw  how  tremblingly  alive  you  were. 
When  I  alluded  to  the  amorous  pair ; 
Your  marriage  was  a  happy  illustration 
Of  my  remarks — 'twas  just  your  situation. 
Indeed  it  was — deny  it  if  you  can — 
How  oft  you  call'd  on  me  to  take  the  man  ! 
And  oh !  how  oft  you  vow'd,  that  ne'er  again 
Would  you  be  bound  by  Hymen's  galling  chain. 
I  took  him! — and  the  well-dissembled  tear 
Of  "  decent  sorrow"  fell  upon  his  bier; 
Yet  now,  when  fairly  rid  of  him,  you  bait 

2g 


452  death's  doings. 

Your  hook— and  I  (good-natur'd  sprite !)  may  wait 
Whilst  you  go  fishing  for  another  mate! 
Believe  me.  Widow,  I  must  have  my  due ; 
You  shall  your  promise  keep,  or  I'll  keep  you. 

But,  come — a  truce  to  truths  which  seem  unpleasant. 

And  of  my  *'  Doings"  past  let's  speak  at  present ; 

I'll  not  disturb  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 

Though  some  brief  sentences  must  needs  be  said, 

By  which  I  trust  to  prove  to  demonstration. 

That  none  with  greater  zeal  e'er  fill'd  his  station ; 

Meanwhile— although,  perhaps,'twill  tire  your  patience 

To  wait  while  I  recount  my  operations — 

I  hope  to  give  you  ample  satisfaction. 

That  from  the  purest  source  sprang  every  action  ; 

And  that  (to  none  allied  of  flesh  and  blood) 

No  motive  sway'd  me  but  the  common  good  : — 

This  is  a  merit  I  can  fairly  claim — 

"  Pro  bono  publico"  was  e'er  my  aim. 

The  basis  upon  which  I  rest  my  fame  ! 


(JTfje  Metapitttlation* 

I  began — let  me  see — oh,  my  "  Doings"  began 
With  a  Sermon.  "Asermon? — a  sermon?"  say  you, 
"  Why,  surely,  to  preach  is  to  say,  not  to  do  ;" — 


EPILOGUE.  463. 

Egad  !  so  it  is ; — well,  I'll  alter  my  plan, 

And  hereafter  keep  but  ray  Doings  in  view  ; 
But  should  you  require  more  scriptural  knowledge 
Than  gownsmen  in  general  pick  up  at  college, 

(Alma  Mater !  pray  pardon  the  libel ;) 
Leave  logical  lumber  to  heads  metaphysical. 
Leave  "  Valentine  Verses,"  to  ladies  who're  phthisical. 
Leave  "Mayoralty  Visits" — by  all  that  is  quizzical — 
O  leave  them, — and  study  your  Bible  ! 

THE   POET. 

Although  I  quench'd  the  sacred  flame 

That  glow'd  within  his  breast. 
The  Bard  obtain'd  a  deathless  fame — 

A  haven,  too,  of  rest : 
The  laurels  of  poetic  praise 

Which  now  adorn  his  tomb. 
Had,  but  for  me,  been  blighted  bays, 

To  wither — not  to  bloom. 

THE  PILGRIM. 

In  Pilgrim's  guise  I  brought  the  fatal  scroll. 
Which  told  a  Maiden  of  her  Lover's  death  ; 

Grief  took  possession  of  her  ardent  soul, — 

She  bless'd  his  memory,  and  resign'd  her  breath  : 

Oft  had  she  vow'd  to  love  no  other  youth ; 

That  vow  she  kept !— an  instance  rare  of  truth  ! 

2  G  2 


454  death's  doings. 

the  artist. 
Mine  was  the  task  to  stop  the  Artist's  hand. 
Ere  age  had  brought  his  genius  to  a  stand  ; 
He'd  finish'd  Time — and  therefore  'twas  my  whim. 
Just  at  that  nick  of  time,  to  finish  him : 
And  as  I  knew  he  meant  a  Dance  to  lead  me. 

To  show  his  skill  in  graphic  witticisms, 
I  took  his  brush  away ! — and  made  him  heed  me, — 

And  saved  him  thus  from  friendly  criticisms  ! 

THE  cricketer. 

In  the  Cricketer's  care-killing  game 

There  was  something  so  manly  and  gay. 
That  his  pastime  I  never  could  blame. 

But  cheerfully  join'd  in  the  play : 
And  if  Time  had  not  thought  it  a  sin. 

For  ever  to  stand  behind  wicket ; 
The  Batsman  might  still  have  been  in, 

And  Death  might  have  still  play'd  at  cricket ! 

the  captive. 
'Twas  I  who  set  the  wretched  Captive  free. 
And  eas'd  him  of  his  load  of  misery— 
In  mercy  bore  him  from  a  dungeon's  gloom. 
And  laid  his  body  in  the  silent  tomb  : 
His  mortal  part  commingled  with  its  kindred  dust — 
His  spirit  took  its  flight,  to  join  *'  the  good  and  just." 


THE  EPILOGUE.  455 

THE  GAMESTER. 

Mark'd  ye  that  convulsive  start? 

Saw  ye  how  his  eyeballs  roll'd  ? 
Vultures  gnaw  the  Gamester's  heart! — 

Fearful  truths  that  sigh  has  told ! 

Now  the  fatal  die  he  throws  ; — 

Heard  ye  that  hysteric  laugh  ? 
'Twas  to  hide  his  deep-felt  woes  : — 

See  him  now  the  poison  quaff ! 

See  his  frame  with  anguish  shake ! 
See  his  wildly-starting  eyes  ! 
-The  PLAY  was  deep — 'twas  life  at  stake — 
And  the  victor  claims  his  prize. 

Transient  pleasure  ! — endless  pain  ! 

Gamester  !  the  enchantment's  o'er ; 
Passion  and  the  lust  of  gain 

Give  to  Death  one  victim  more ! 

the  serenader. 

Would  you  know  why  so  slily  I  grasp'd  the  stiletto. 
And  slew  young  Adonis,  the  gay  Serenader? 

I  had  just  before  seen,  in  a  foul  lazaretto, 

A  fair  one  expire  : — it  was  he  first  betray'd  her ! 


456  death's  doings. 

No  longer,  said  I,  shall  thy  strains,  tho'  melodious. 
Their  aid  lend  to  lead  lovely  woman  astray  ; 

Not   a   chord   shalt   thou    strike    for   a  purpose   so 
odious — 
So  haste,  Sereuader  !  Death  calls  thee  away  ! 


THE  TOILET. 

A  lady  so  fair,  or  a  maid  half  so  sly. 

At  a  Toilet  were  never  yet  seen, 
As  on  that  fatal  night — when,  in  masquerade,  I 
Attended  on  Laura  (none  other  was  nigh) 

And  clad  her  in  raiment  so  sheen. 

But  Laura  coquetted — for  Laura  was  vain — 

And  though  she  professed  to  return 
Young  Edward's  true  passion — (J  speak  it  with  pain) 
He  perish'd,  the  victim  of  cruel  disdain, — 

And  his  ashes  now  rest  in  yon  urn  ! 

So  the  false  one  I  took  !  though  I  deck'd  her  so  gay 

With  trinkets,  and  jewels,  and  gold  ; — 
And  the  gossips  still  talk  of  that  terrible  day, 
^Yhen  Death,  as  a  Waiting-maid,  bore  her  away 
To  the  charnel-house,  darksome  and  cold  ! 


THE  EPILOGUE.  457 

THE  MOTHER. 

Methinks  I  hear  some  pitying  Mother  say. 
Why  snatch  a  helpless  Infant  thus  away? 
Why  turn  to  clay  that  cheek  on  which  was  spread 
The  lily's  whiteness  with  the  rose's  red  ? 
Why  close  those  ruby  lips — those  deep-fring'd  eyes  1 
Why  seize  so  young,  so  innocent  a  prize  ! — 
Hold  !  hold  !  nor  murmur  at  the  wise  decree 
That  set  a  lovely  earth-born  seraph  free. 
And  gave  it  bliss  and  immortality  ! 

THE  HYPOCHONDRIAC. 

Immers'd  in  apathy  and  mental  gloom. 
The  wasted  form  of  Hypochondria  sits  ; 

And  as  the  phantoms  flit  around  his  room. 

With  fear  he  shakes— or,  falls,  convuls'd,  in  fits  ! 

The  workings  of  his  melancholy  mind 

Present  horrific  spectres  to  his  sight : 
He  sees  no  friend,  beneficent  and  kind — 

But  life,  to  him,  is  one  dark  cheerless  night. 

O  Melancholy  !  bane  of  peace  and  health  ! 

When  thy  sad  reign  contaminates  the  breast. 
Nor  pleasure's  glittering  charms,  nor  love,  nor  wealth 

Can  give  repose  : — in  death  alone  there's  rest ! 


458  death's  doings. 

life's  assurance. 

Saw  you  that  aged  man,  whose  tottering  feet 
Could  scarce  support  him  to  the  office  door  ? 
He  was  a  Life  Assurer  ; — and,  though  poor. 

Deposits  from  his  pittance  made,  to  meet 

His  offspring's  need.     O  happiness  complete. 
When  man  so  dies !     The  miser's  store 
May  serve  some  idle  spendthrift ! — seldom  more  ; 

But  competency  thus  acquir'd  is  sweet ! 
Sweet  'tis  to  him  who,  providently  kind. 

Protects  his  wife  and  children  from  the  blast 
Of  Poverty; — and  oh,  how  sweet  they  find 

The  succour  it  affords  !— such  joys  will  last ! — 
Who  blames  me,  then,  for  keeping  Life's  Assurance? 
Thro'  Death,  you  see,  Life  may  be  worth  endurance. 

THE  ANTIQUARY. 

What  wild  illusions  mock  their  sight. 

When  Antiquaries  pore 
O'er  mouldering  relics,  day  and  night, 

With  patient,  plodding  lore  !— 
Life's  meant  for  rational  enjoyment ; 

And  if,  while  here  below, 
Man  seeks  not — finds  not — wise  employment. 

To  Davy  let  him  go  ! 


THE  EPILOGUE.  459 

THE  CHAMPION. 

O  mourn  not  for  prize-fighting  kiddies  inglorious  ; 

Lament  not  the  fate  of  those  swells  of  *'  the  Ring :" 
The  Championship's  mine !  for  I'm  ever  victorious. 

And  fam'd  Boxiana  my  prowess  shall  sing  ! 
Then  hoist  the  black  fogle — let  marrow-bones  rattle — 

And  push  round  the  skulls  which  with  claret  o'er- 
flow ; 
Drink,  drink  to  the  Champion,  who,  fairly  in  battle. 

The  famed  men  of  muscle  for  ever  laid  low ! 

THE  BACCHANALIANS. 

Tho'  Bacchanals  boast  of  their  ivy-crown'd  god. 
And  sing  of  the  bright  sparkling  glass. 

With  the  juice  of  the  grape,  how  they  hiccup  and 
nod, — 
How  it  likens  a  man  to  an  ass ! 

The  balm  of  the  bottle,  they  say,  lightens  care, — 

But  far  more  it  lightens  the  purse ; 
While  it  brings  to  its  vot'ry  a  load  of  despair. 

It  brings,  too,  his  heaviest  curse — 

The  groans  of  the  parent,  the  child,  or  the  wife. 

Who  famish  while  Bacchanals  swill ! 
Then  say,  can  you  blame  me  for  taking  the  life 

Of  such  as  so  recklessly  kill  ? 


460  death's  doings. 

the  warrior. 
With  martial  port  the  Warrior  seeks  the  field. 

Where  waves  Destruction's  banner  in  the  wind. 
And,  though  in  combat  wounded,  scorns  to  yield. 

For  "  love  and  glory"  fire  his  ardent  mind  : 
Now,  see,  he  proudly  mounts  the  blood-stain'd  car. 

And  leads  his  squadrons  to  the  fierce  affray ; 
His  gallant  bearing  turns  the  tide  of  war — 

The  adverse  army  recreant  flee  away ; 
But,  oh !  when  just  within  his  grasp  the  prize. 
His  life-blood  flows — a  film  o'erspreads  his  eyes — 
He  faints — and  in  the  hour  of  vict'ry  dies  ! 

THE  GLUTTON. 

No  matter  what — flesh,  fowl,  or  fish — 

If  man  become  a  Glutton  ; 
With  gout  he  feeds  from  ev'ry  dish — 

Veal,  ven'son,  beef,  or  mutton. 
Eating — drinking — panting — puffing  ! 

0  the  dear  delights  of  stuffing  ! 

But  when  the  greedy  Epicure 
A  god  thus  makes  his  belly, 

1  mix  some  poison — slow,  but  sure — 

In  gravy,  soup,  or  jelly. 
On  the  couch,  then,  see  him  lying  ! — 
Writhing — groaning — gasping — dying ! 


THE  EPILOGUE.  461 

THE  HUNTER. 

The  fearless  Hunter  took  his  dangerous  leap  ; 
For  though  I  vvarn'd,  he  held  my  warning  cheap. 
At  length  he  fell — another  fill'd  his  place. 
And,  like  him,  heedless,  follows  in  the  chase. 

THE  ALCHYMIST. 

His  time  and  health  the  Alchymist  destroys, 

In  vain  pursuit  of  visionary  joys  ! 

What  if  he  find  the  rare  and  hidden  treasure. 

More  pain  his  golden  prize  would  bring  than  pleasure. 

Gold  !  Gold  !  thou  bane  of  life  !  thou  fancied  good  ! 

Thy  use  to  Man,  how  little  understood  ! 

ACADEMIC  HONOURS. 

Should  I  the  Martyr  Student's  portrait  draw. 
And  show  that  genius,  with  each  good  combin'd, — 
That  virtue,  and  that  nobleness  of  mind. 
Were  his — without  a  blemish  or  a  flaw — 

You'd  blame  me  for  my  act ; — and  yet  'twas  kind  : 
For  well  I  knew  that,  maugre  worth  and  merit. 
Posthumous  fame  was  all  that  he'd  inherit ; 
And  those,  indeed,  who  court  fame  ought  to  know. 
That  Death  alone  can  lasting  fame  bestow. 

the  empiric. 

The  Quack  kill'd  his  patient,  and  I  kill'd  the  Quack; 

Thus  a  fool  and  a  knave  were  got  rid  of  at  once ; 


462  death's  doings. 

But  tho'  I  contriv'd  to  lay  him  on  his  back, 
Behind  he's  left  many  a  death-dealing  dunce 


THE   MISER. 

The  wretch  who  hoards,  while  others  pine 

In  want,  and  pain,  and  woe. 
Content  must  be  at  Pluto's  shrine 

Penance  to  undergo  ; 
For  though  he  hold  the  lucre  fast. 

And  hoard  up  every  shilling. 
To  Pluto  he  must  go  at  last. 

And  there  expect  a  grilling. 

THE  PHAETON. 

Behold,  my  love,  how  fine  the  day ! 

Cried  Charles,  as  he  the  Phaeton  mounted  j 
His  heart  was  light,  his  spirits  gay. 

And  tales  of  love  the  youth  recounted. 

But  false  as  fair  the  syren  he 
That  day  had  honour'd  with  his  name  ; 

And  I  resolv'd  to  set  him  free 

From  private  grief  and  public  shame. 

death's  register. 

An  ancient  worthy,  when  of  Man  he  wrote. 
Permitted  me  his  Register  to  quote; 


EPILOGUE.  463 

And  as  I  know  I  cannot  make  a  better, 

I'll  quote  it  fairly,  to  the  very  letter  : — 

"  Man's  bodie's  like  a  house :  his  greater  boiies 

Are  the  main  timber ;  and  the  lesser  ones 

Are  smaller  splints  ;  his  ribs  are  laths,  daub'd  o'er, 

Plaister'd  viiih.  flesh  and  bloud:  his  mouth's  the  doore: 

His  throat's  the  narrow  entrie,  and  his  heart 

Is  the  great  chamber,  full  of  curious  art : 

His  midriffe  is  a  large  partition-wall 

'Twixt  the  great  chamber  and  the  spacious  hall : 

His  stotnack  is  the  kitchen,  where  the  meat 

Is  often  but  half  sod,  for  want  of  heat: 

His  splene's  a  vessell,  nature  does  allot 

To  take  the  skumme  that  rises  from  the  pot : 

His  lungs  are  like  the  bellows,  that  respire 

In  every  office,  quick'ning  every  fire  : 

His  nose  the  chimney  is,  whereby  are  vented 

Such  fumes  as  with  the  bellows  are  augmented  : 

His  bowels  are  the  sink,  whose  part's  to  drein 

All  noisome  filth,  and  keep  the  kitchen  clean  : 

His  ejjes  are  chrystajl  windows,  clear  and  bright ; 

Let  in  the  object,  and  let  out  the  sight. 

And  as  the  timber  is  or  great  or  small. 

Or  strong,  or  weak,  'tis  apt  to  stand,  or  fall : 

Yet  is  the  likeliest  building,  sometimes  known 

To  fall  by  obvious  chances ;  overthrown 


4G4  death's  doings. 

Oft-times  by  tempests,  by  the  full-mouth'd  blasts 
Of  heaven  ;  sometimes  by  fire  ;  sometimes  it  wastes 
Through  unadvis'd  neglect ;  put  case  the  stufFe 
Were  ruin-proofe,  by  nature  strong  enough 
To  conquer  time  and  age ;  put  case  it  should 
Ne'er  know  an  end,  alas  our  leases  would. 
What  hast  thou  then,  proud  flesh  and  bloud,  to  boast? 
Thy  dayes  are  bad,  at  best ;  but  few,  at  most ; 
But  sad,  at  merriest ;  and  but  weak,  at  strongest ; 
Unsure,  at  surest ;  and  but  short,  at  longest." 

THE  LAWYER. 

I  told  you  naught  but  truth  before,  concerning  this 

fraternity, 
Nor  should  I  aught  do  less  or  more,  tho'  I  talk'd  to 

all  eternity ! 
If  any  mortal  doubt  my  word — to  Law,   then,  let 

him  go, 
A  greater  curse  'twere  quite  absurd  to  wish  one's 

bitterest  foe. 

THE  ANGLER. 

Though  a  jest-loving  wight*  has  thought  fit  to  define. 
In  sportive  derision,  each  Angling  brother. 

As  "  a  stick  and  a  string  (id  est,  rod  and  line) 

With  a  worm  at  one  end  and  a  fool  at  the  other ;" 

*  Dean  Swift. 


THE  EPILOGUE.  465 

Yet,  believe  me,  no  fool  is  the  man  who  in  quiet 
Can  sit  down  contented  amid  the  world's  din ; 

^Tis  Fashion's  blind  vot'ry,  who,  dwelling  in  riot. 
The  slave  is  of  Folly,  of  Care,  and  of  Sin. 

THE  BUBBLE-BLOWERS. 

There  are  Bubbles  above  and  below, — 

On  land,  and  at  sea,  and  in  air ; 
But  none  of  the  bubbles  I  know. 

With  the  bubbles  of  Britain  compare  : — 

Such  wonderful  bubbles  are  they  ! 

What  puffing  it  took,  and  what  trouble. 

To  blow  all  these  bubbles  at  first ! 
And  the  trouble  was  more  than  made  double. 

When  the  bubbles  of  Britain  all  burst ! — 

-  What  troublesome  bubbles  were  they ! 

But  why  should  you  mourn  over  bubbles. 
That  are  pufF'd  in  and  out  with  a  breath. 

When  the  greatest  of  bubbles  and  troubles 
Are,  one  and  all,  puff 'd  out  by  Death  ! — 

The  bubbles  and  troubles  of  Life! 


Vain,  inconsistent,  self-deluded  race. 
Whose  vision's  limited  to  finite  space. 


466 


DEATH  S  DOINGS. 


You  grasp  some  idle  phantom  of  the  brain. 

And,  maniac-like,  would  clank  and  hug  your  chain. 

All — all  is  vanity  beneath  the  sun ! 

Whene'er  the  sand  of  Life  its  course  hath  run — 

Or  soon,  or  late — 'tis  then  the  proper  time 

This  grovelling  world  to  quit,  and  seek  the  clime 

Where  Life's  eternal,  glorious,  and  sublime  ! 

S.  M. 


THE   END. 

PRINTED   BY    G.    H.    DAVIDSON,   IREI.ANn    VAUD,  DOCTORS'  COMMONS. 


^ 


lM»railgili 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


3  0112  081405125 


